Agent
by Avalas
Summary: More Mercykillers, Anarchists, and lower planar creatures than you can shake a stick at. Set approximately seven years before the Faction War, with eventual tieins from Spelljammer and Dark Sun. Based on my own take on the Planescape setting.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 1

Sigil's prison was not an architectural masterpiece, nor was it pleasant to the senses. The only thing that could be said for it was that it was large, built along the perimeter of a square with sides measuring nearly a thousand feet. Located in the Lady's Ward, the foreboding seven-story structure was adorned only with evenly spaced guard towers and searchlights. Ever-vigilant prison guards and their Aoskian hounds patrolled the roof's walkways at all times. Except for the first level of administrative offices, the other six stories above ground were inhabited by more than 20,000 inmates convicted of anything from vagrancy to murder. The cells themselves were not more than five by ten feet, but they frequently held as many as four prisoners in squalid conditions. As if that were not enough, up to another 8,000 persons rotted away underground, in the area known as "the cellar," which also contained the Sentencing Rooms, where punishment, namely death and torture, was dealt.

The Mercykillers, commonly known as the Red Death, operated this prison. They were the third component of Sigil's "Triad of Order," of which the other two were the Harmonium and the Fraternity of Order, in charge of arrest and trial, respectively. The Mercykillers handled the punishment. In principle, the faction was single-minded in the pursuit of one thing: Justice, a principle the factioneers worshipped, lived for, and would gladly die for. However, within the broad pursuit of justice, the Mercykiller faction suffered from rough internal divisions. Seldom are people truly impartial, as their eyes are usually clouded by personal beliefs. Some in the faction saw the law as an instrument for the greater public good, whereas others simply viewed the law as a means to exert power and influence. Often, one Mercykiller found himself desperately trying to prove a man innocent while another member of the faction was trying just as hard to send the same man to the gallows. This seldom worked smoothly, and more often than not, the prisoner in question found himself in the dead-book as a result.

Still, there were those who had little concern for ideology, paying only lip service to a faction's philosophy while enjoying the advantages of faction membership. In addition, it was no secret that out of all the factions, the Red Death had some of the least stringent recruitment requirements. One only had to swear by the Eight Tenets of Justice at a bi-monthly recruitment session. There were no training sessions, examinations, or trials required for admittance, and it was a known fact that the faction occasionally recruited from its own prisoners.

On one such day, a barefooted woman clad in filthy rags shuffled towards the prison's front gate. She was high in stature, but walked stooped with an uneasy gait, her head covered with a threadbare hood. Elements of coarse, disheveled, and grime-encrusted hair poked out between the threads. Her face was lean and pale; it was apparent that she had been living on the streets for quite some time. In one hand she clutched a Mercykiller recruitment flyer. For months she had drifted across the city, wandering from street to street, almshouse to almshouse, hoping that good fortune would allow her to stumble upon the portal that would lead her home. No more, she decided. She couldn't return home, but that didn't mean she had to suffer in Sigil, the City of Doors, the center of the multiverse. Today she accepted things and resolved to start her life here.

A stern-faced guard at the front gate stopped her, but promptly allowed her entrance when she showed him the flyer. "Public room. First door on the left," he told her.

The gates opened. When she stepped inside, she was immediately patted down by a guard in the main lobby, and she was forced to surrender the rusty knife she had used to carve out a living in the Hive. Without even taking time to look about, she entered the designated room, where about a dozen other prospective recruits were gathered. Leaning up against the wall, she drew curious looks from everyone for her ragged appearance. Particularly disdainful was the massively built man standing beside her, who turned up his nose and cast sidelong glances in her direction. The others simply avoided looking, and when they talked among themselves, they made sure to exclude her. All the while, the woman carefully studied them, taking note of their expressions and of their posture, even listening in on their conversations.

After about an hour of this, the enlistment officer appeared, accompanied by a young bright-eyed man of average height. The officer, dressed in ceremonial black robes of the faction's design, was a lean man entering his advanced years, indicated by his thinning, graying hair, his wispy white beard, and his weathered face. The young man wore a standard suit of chain mail with the emblem of the Red Death, a winged serpent with fangs bared, carved into the left pauldron. He was not wearing a helmet, and his cropped black hair complemented the dark brown irises of his single-lidded eyes. In contrast to the enlistment officer, the young man had a well-polished, clean-shaven face and displayed an almost cheerful countenance, appearing to be on the verge of smiling. He gave a quick nod to the massive man who had shown contempt towards the Hiver. The man nodded slowly in return and smiled warmly. In a proud tone, the enlistment officer introduced himself as Justicar Melrasat Eran. He began by briefly recounting his thirty-odd years in the service of justice, especially emphasizing a mission in which he had tracked a cambion smuggler across the Outlands for nearly five years before finally subduing and arresting it. After the rather lengthy introduction, the man proceeded to lecture for the next three hours on the Eight Tenets of Justice and what it meant to be a Mercykiller. It was not the most entertaining speech; several people in the room almost fell asleep or collapsed (they had been standing the entire time). The woman simply wondered when these formalities would be over.

At the conclusion of his lecture, Justicar Eran spoke directly to the audience. "If there are those among you whose commitment to Justice is not absolute, you must leave at this time. The Mercykiller faction has no need for such rabble." Immediately two young men headed towards the door. Were they not under the watchful eye of the faction's guards, they would have broken into a run. The Justicar watched them leave before returning his gaze to the candidates, in particular to the apparently destitute woman, puzzled as to why she did not leave. He figured her to have come from the Hive, the district inhabited by the impoverished dregs of Sigil, including such scum as vagrants, thieves, and prostitutes. What could she possibly offer to the faction? "Good," he said, surveying the remaining candidates. "Now, everyone here must recite and swear by the Eight Tenets of Justice." He specifically motioned for the woman to start.

She saw that coming--she knew that they would try to make her stumble so they could deny her membership. However, she already knew the Eight Tenets by heart, and she had already prepared for strict regimentation. She would play the role flawlessly. "On this day, I give my life to Justice. I swear that I will uphold Justice above all else, purging the multiverse of those who break the law. In all situations I will weigh the rights and wrongs with a clear and impartial mind. I will decide where Justice must fall under the law, and I will mete out that Justice with a firm and unyielding hand. I believe in the righteousness of the Mercykiller faction; they alone answer to the higher law of Justice. I will not pass judgment on good or evil, only on law-abiding and law-breaking, for therein lies wrongdoing. I will punish the guilty as the crime demands. I will be diligent in my pursuit of the guilty, and while so engaged I will remain innocent of any wrongdoing in the eyes of others. And finally, I will never release a lawbreaker until his sentence has been carried out."

The Justicar's face showed surprise, but this soon turned into warm approval. The woman not only knew the tenets by heart, but she had said them with firm conviction. And as a Mercykiller of nearly forty years' experience, his instincts regarding truth and sincerity were very difficult to deceive. Then eyeing the other candidates, he motioned for them to begin. One by one, they recited the Eight Tenets, some with more difficulty than others. Those who stalled in their words were prompted along by the young guard who had accompanied Justicar Eran. When all had sworn to the Eight Tenets of Justice, Justicar Eran directed the candidates towards the registration office.

Registration was a simple matter--one only had to state name, race, and professional training, if any. A background check was done later to ensure that none of the new recruits had egregiously criminal pasts. They lined up in front of the desk and began. The huge man who had stood beside the rag-clad woman during the recruitment session went first. He declared himself to be Morthus Tallhammer, the younger brother of a Mercykiller Justice named Morwes Tallhammer. No further questions were asked; it seemed as if the faction had already been prepared for his enlistment. The woman waited near the end of the line, and when her turn came, the smell that emanated from her gave the man at the desk reason to pause. "Name?" the man finally asked.

Name? She hadn't heard her name for some time now, and it almost felt strange to say it again. "Areldis," she finally responded. Then realizing that she should have given more information, she added, "Human prime, arrived in Sigil about half a year ago. I know not even which prime world I am from, so I doubt that you will find much on me in the Hall of Records." Human. How easily she said it these days. When she was younger, she used to claim her elven side, but that just led to strange stares and outright laughter. Once in a blue moon, or so the prime expression went, a child of mixed elven parentage would be born without any physical markers of elvishness. She learned after a while just to say 'human'. It was better this way; no one asked any questions.

The man at the desk snorted. Without looking up, he asked, "Any combat experience, or...otherwise?"

"Yes, I can fight with a sword, if that is what you ask," Areldis replied calmly.

"Hive a rough place, eh?"

To this Areldis simply gave a slow expressionless nod, to which the registration officer motioned for her to stand with the other recruits and await further instructions. When the last of them had been registered, Justicar Eran led the recruits to the supply room. There, they were issued equipment, though the selection available to recruits was limited to the most basic items. Armor, if any, was the standard inexpensive leather, and the weapons were of average quality at best. The man in charge of the supply room was a sandy-haired half-elven youth who introduced himself as Jeireul. Jeireul did his job with great enthusiasm, sizing up each recruit with his bright green eyes before rushing into the back rooms to pick out an appropriate suit of leather armor. For those who did not have their own weapons, he provided standard-issue swords, daggers, and axes. When it was Areldis's turn to receive equipment, Jeireul promptly took her measurements and headed to the back room. However, he emerged moments later with nothing in his hands and headed to Justicar Eran with a slightly concerned expression on his face.

They spoke in hushed tones, but due to her superior hearing, Areldis was able to catch the conversation. Jeireul began a little nervously. "Justicar, Sir, we're short on uniforms. Well, at least the ones that would fit that recruit. She is taller than she looks, you know. Should we wait for the next order to come in, or should I just issue whatever robes we have now?"

"Very well," Eran replied. "However, first I want Morwes to take her down to the cellar for a bath."

The Justicar's assistant asked, "What's going to happen to the rest of the recruits? Should we just allow them to wait?"

"I think I can stall for a bit, but do make her be quick about it."

Morwes nodded slowly and then headed to Areldis, who was still standing in front of the counter feigning indifference. He tapped her on the shoulder and introduced himself. "I am Justice Morwes Tallhammer, the elder brother of the recently recruited Morthus Tallhammer. We should get you cleaned up, Namer. We cannot have servants of Justice walking around in rags and filth." He stated this without looking into the recruit's eyes, though her slightly stooped posture did put her at his eye level.

"So you're the brother of that big fellow. Lead on, then."

"This way." Morwes headed down the corridor, walking past a few rooms labeled "processing." As Areldis followed, she could not resist stopping to take a quick glance into these chambers, since their doors were left slightly ajar. Inside, various rows of prisoners awaited their sentencing. Most were dressed in rags similar to her own, and quite a few of them had no shoes. Every so often, sharp cries of pain were heard when a guard felt the need to start a prisoner's punishment early. However, this environment did not put Areldis at ill ease, as she had seen and heard enough on the streets of the Hive to dull her sensitivity to such things. All that mattered to her was that she was not at the receiving end of the beating.

A few moments later, Morwes arrived at one of the spiral stairwells that extended from the depths of the cellar to the top levels of the watchtowers. He peered over his left shoulder, preparing to address Areldis when he noticed that she was not behind him but was loitering conspicuously next to the processing rooms. Morwes was more than a bit annoyed. "Try to keep up!" he called out. "The other recruits are waiting for you, and we'd like to maintain at least an air of efficiency around here," he then added, putting emphasis on the word "air." To his surprise, the woman was very attentive, walking to him without a moment's hesitation.

The staircase was illuminated by fist-sized glass orbs enchanted with continual light spells. These orbs were fixed into slots cut into the central shaft of the screw-like stairwell, giving a warm yellow glow to the otherwise dismal place. About twenty feet down, they reached a small cavity that had been dug around the stairs. Four guards were posted there, since the apparent purpose of the room was to oversee traffic between the upper levels and the cellar. One of the guards listed slightly to his right, seemingly distracted, but the others remained perfectly motionless as Areldis and Morwes passed.

Areldis suddenly stopped immediately below the room. "How far do these stairs go down?" she asked.

"Well, you never really want to take them all the way to the bottom. Not even the most foolhardy of us would even dare venture into the Grotto. It's the cavern where you find the bones of Mercykillers who had strayed from the path of Justice... Well, at least the ones who refused the more humane punishment."

"What's the humane punishment?"

"Death by guillotine." Sensing that the conversation had abruptly halted, he quickly added, "Let's get going."

They continued down, passing a set of double doors marked "kitchen and dining." One floor below that, they arrived at the faction bathing rooms. Morwes then left in a hurry, telling Areldis to "get herself cleaned off" and that he would return with "suitable clothing."

Inside, there were about a score of small sunken pools filled with tepid water, which was drained and heated through magical means. As with the staircase, orbs enchanted with continual light spells gave the room a warm glow. Areldis, feeling excited about her first bath in quite some time, quickly disrobed and stepped into one of the pools, but she was immediately dismayed to see that her body had become thinner and weaker than it had been months before. Within minutes of lying down in the pool, the water turned a murky brown. Layer upon layer of grime, accumulated largely from the oily rain of Sigil, dissolved in the water. Sigil, the center of the multiverse, with portals leading to every plane of existence imaginable, was not the most pleasant place to live in. Situated along the inner surface of the torus that hovered atop the Infinite Spire, the city lacked the significant weather patterns that could help mitigate many of the effects of pollution. As a result, the particulate matter that had been thrown up into the air by places such as the Great Foundry often collected in the central "hole" of the torus and came down in the rain. The near-toxic rain made Sigil a very inhospitable place for plant life. The indigenous foliage, if any, had already disappeared long ago, poisoned by the rain and displaced by the razorvine, a native to the Lower Planes that had become the only plant to thrive in Sigil. The plant grew extremely quickly--up to six feet per day--and it earned its name due to its razor-sharp stems, stems that could easily slice through cloth and leather. Areldis remembered the day she first entered Sigil, tumbling out of the planar portal and into a wall choked with razorvine. Her left shoulder and arm absorbed most of the impact and suffered deep, painful gashes. Fortunately, she had been able to bandage the wounds with strips of cloth torn from her shirt before the bleeding became unmanageable.

She stared at her bare shoulder now. As she had expected, the skin was smooth and not a hint of scarring could be discerned. She had always healed quickly and was not unaccustomed to experiencing pain. Besides, she reasoned, physical pain was nothing when compared to extended periods of slow misery. It would be different now, she imagined. From now on, she would have food to eat and regular pay. Perhaps in time, after regaining her strength, she would find a way to return to her prime world. If she couldn't find a way back, she would be content to capture the thieves who had stolen her gear and thrash them to the brink of death--in the name of justice, of course. When Morwes returned, he saw Areldis submerged in a murky pool of water with only her face breaking through the surface, her eyes staring contentedly at the ceiling. She didn't notice his presence until she heard the sound of something being dropped on the floor.

"I'll be waiting at the door," she heard Morwes say.

She immediately climbed out and examined what had been left for her. A small stack of clothes lay there pinned under a pair of heavy leather boots. She put the boots aside as she put on the white shirt and the brown pants she found underneath, not bothering to dry off beforehand, since the coarse fabric would readily absorb the water. Then she hastily fitted the boots and donned the dark brown robe, which to her surprise was of good quality. Though it didn't have any embellishments save for a Mercykiller emblem on the left side of the hood, the fabric was heavy and tightly-woven, giving good protection from the foul Sigilian rain. After dressing, she gathered up her old tattered rags and her holed leggings and headed for the exit.

As the doors opened, Morwes was surprised to see a remarkably transformed recruit. The stoop was gone from her posture, and more importantly, the filth from the street had been washed away. Her face was not only presentable, but aside from several scratches and a slightly gaunt condition, would haven been considered quite attractive. Her hazel eyes stared forward confidently, and her hair, which was still dripping water onto the back of her robe, was of a pleasing vermillion hue. For the first time that night, Morwes was truly impressed, if only briefly. He had to remind himself that what truly mattered before day's end was how a recruit performed on the written and physical evaluations.

When they made it back to the supply area, Justicar Eran was finishing up a story of another one of his journeys on the outer planes. It always seemed as if the old man had such a story on hand for every situation. As Areldis rejoined the other recruits, Jeireul took her old clothes and promptly disposed of them in a refuse bin on the other side of the room. "So what's next, Justice?" Areldis asked when Morwes returned.

"A set of physical and mental exams will assess your value to the faction." At that moment, the Justicar's tale had ended, and the old man motioned to Morwes to come to him.

"Morwes, I want you to take the rest of the day off with your brother. The other instructors and I can handle these recruits."

"But, sir, why?"

"It's your brother's first day in the faction, Morwes, and he has already taken all the necessary exams, so it would be pointless for him to remain. Besides, he has been preparing for this day for the past five years, so a little celebration is appropriate."

"Shall we meet later tonight, Justicar?"

"I'll be at the Last Dance at six or seven past peak. Hopefully we'll be done with these namers by then."

"Agreed. I'll see you then. Morthus, today is truly your lucky day."

After the brothers had left, Justicar Eran led the recruits into an examination room. Under the watchful eyes of half-a-dozen prison guards, the recruits sat at various desks for the next four hours frantically scribbling down answers in a strenuous written examination. One of the recruits was actually illiterate and sat still at his desk for the duration of the test without making a single mark on his paper. The exam tested Sigilian history and geography, as well as verbal and mathematical skills. And of course, there was a section devoted to ideological matters, complete with several hypothetical scenarios designed to measure a recruit's sense of judgment. For that section, Areldis decided it was safest to follow the letter of the law in every instance. Her responses were not going to win any points for creativity or depth of thought, but she had a feeling that the Red Death did not reward that sort of initiative. To Areldis, the only difficult portion was planar knowledge, since she had spent the majority of her life living in the prime material plane. However, having spent some time in Sigil, she could confidently identify most of the city's major landmarks and many of its prominent leaders. In addition, she surprised herself with her familiarity with the lower planes. Her father, a prime elf named Psiros, had been a renowned explorer and had written many volumes detailing his travels in the lower planes. She remembered reading these books as a child and having intense nightmares about the Blood War, the eternal conflict between the orderly fiends of Baator and the chaotic forces of the Abyss. The nightmares eventually drew the attention of her mother, who scolded Pisros, warning him not to let her daughter read of such things until she was older. Psiros didn't listen; neither did Areldis. A smile crept upon Areldis's lips as she completed the section and the exam.

Realizing that she had finished about half an hour early, she put her pen back into its inkwell and decided to observe the others. One tiefling mage, a young boyish type who had elf-like ears and irises like rubies, was apparently having difficulty with a question and began to scratch his head with his pen. However, he was unwittingly using the point, so a black streak soon appeared down the right side of his head, contrasting sharply with his shoulder-length mane of silvery hair. When the mage realized his blunder, he froze for a few seconds before rubbing his hair with his left hand and netting a palm of ink. As he stared at his hand incredulously, Areldis let out a slight chuckle.

Areldis heard Justicar Eran's voice behind her. "Is something amusing, Namer?"

"Uh, no, sir. I have completed my exam, sir. I'll shut up now."

"Good," Melrasat replied as he snatched Areldis's exam from the table and walked away. For the remainder of the testing period, Areldis sat rigid and expressionless. When time was up, Justicar Eran collected all the tests. Some recruits sighed in relief, others in frustration, but Areldis still retained her blank stare.

For the next phase of testing, the recruits were led into the courtyard inside the prison. On most days, it served as an exercise and drill yard for the prisoners, but it had been cleared by the time the recruits arrived. In the courtyard stood three trainers, whose job was to assess the each of the new factioneers in terms of combat skill, magical aptitude, or clerical ability. After arrival, Justicar Eran divided the recruits according to profession. In all, there were five mages, sixteen warriors, and only one priest. He then explained how the mandatory combat assessment would proceed. The trainer, Justice Ranth Fersi, was an unassuming man, average in height with brown hair, brown eyes, and a longish face that was somewhat weathered and craggy but neither attractive nor unattractive. However, he had the distinction of being trained in nearly all types of melee weaponry. Each recruit was to select a wooden stick that most closely approximated his or her weapon of choice. Justice Fersi was to use an identical weapon with which to duel the recruit. Once one participant was struck twice, the duel would end, and the trainer would then record his comments.

The five mages went first, since they were typically the weakest fighters and were expected to be finished quickly. The first four used the typical mage weapons of staves and daggers, and each of their assessments ended within seconds. The fifth, the silver-haired tiefling wielding the stick equivalent of a short sword, fared somewhat better. He ducked around for nearly half a minute before the trainer finally scored the second hit on his shoulder. After the unremarkable performance by the priest, the first of the fighters approached the trainer. To everyone's dismay, the man was either so nervous or so clumsy that he tripped over his foot and fell on his face just as the match began. Justice Fersi then tapped him twice on the head with a roughly hatchet-shaped piece of wood. However, the trainer did give him a second chance, and the recruit did better, but not by much. Areldis, being the last in line, was the last to be tested. None of the other recruits had even come close to defeating Justice Fersi. When her turn came, she stood before the bin of wooden weapons with a look of apprehension. For the past year she had handled only knives, but she knew that she had trained more extensively with the larger blades. She was confident that she would present at least a challenge to the trainer, but she was not merely content to be a challenge. She wanted to win.

Finally, a look of impatience from the trainer forced Areldis to snatch a wooden longsword from the pile. Justice Fersi, identical stick already in hand, stood at the field of engagement and motioned with his stick for Areldis to approach. She walked only halfway there, stopping to look about in every direction, as if inspecting the courtyard. While doing this, she was also digging her right heel into the dirt, seemingly a gesture of nervousness.

"Are you addled, Namer? Stop stalling!" the trainer cried in annoyance.

Without a moment's delay, Areldis walked to Justice Fersi and assumed a combat stance. When Melrasat gave the signal to begin, by simply saying "begin," Justice Fersi charged forward and slashed with efficient, calculated strokes. Areldis, having seen the trainer duel the other recruits, clearly saw that Justice Fersi was very skilled. And in her weakened physical state and with a rusty sword arm, she had had almost no chance of winning against him in a straightforward duel. She would have to rely on her cunning and on her excellent dexterity. As the trainer opened up his initial attack, Areldis gave ground readily with sloppy parries and clumsy footwork. With each step that she retreated, Justice Fersi grew bolder. He began to fight as if he were toying with her, and this was just what Areldis had hoped for. She waited until the trainer's carelessness presented an opening, and then she took it. When Fersi came at Areldis with a half-hearted high slash, she ducked out of the stick's path with incredible speed and from that low position, she struck outwards with a backhand slash that scored a hit the trainer's right side. However, before she could safely jump away, Justice Fersi's stick swung low and caught her on the arm. In any case, the ruse was up. Areldis's began to fight rather professionally, and Justice Fersi, reeling from the shock of being fooled, promptly recovered the efficiency that he had at the beginning of the duel. For the next several minutes, the match went back and forth while the other recruits watched and cheered. To Areldis, though, her chances for victory grew slimmer by the second. Justice Fersi was obviously the superior fighter, parrying every one of Areldis's blows with seeming ease. Areldis was not faring as well. She sometimes found herself slightly off-balance while parrying the trainer's expert attacks, and she knew that eventually he would capitalize on such an opportunity. She had to end the match quickly. She jumped backwards and to the right, to the spot where she had dug her heel into the dirt before the match. Justice Fersi, though puzzled by the sudden retreat, immediately pursued. Instead of raising her sword-sized stick to meet him, she put it to the ground and flicked up a clod of loose earth at her opponent's face. Instinctively, Justice Fersi flinched and turned away, giving Areldis just enough time to rush forward and tap him on the shoulder.

Her opponent stepped back, stared at the ground, and shook his head. "Of all the piking..." he muttered.

"Sir," Areldis said calmly, "you are a much finer swordsman than I. I could not have challenged you on equal terms, which is why I employed these tricks. If anything, please consider this a humble acknowledgement of your superior skill."

Justice Fersi sighed and looked at Areldis, his initial frustration slowly changing to acceptance, aided by the recruit's flattery. "Well, Namer, you did win, and I will refrain from complaint. You did what was necessary when overmatched, and I can't exactly fault in your method." With a grin, he then added, "But I still can't believe that I was defeated by this clump of dirt." The recruits broke out in chuckles; even Justicar Eran smirked.

After all the trainers had written their comments, the final test began. The recruits soon saw why it came last. It consisted only of grueling, mind-numbing exercise. Unlike the Harmonium, for which exercise was an integral part of its six-week training and indoctrination program, the Mercykillers simply wanted to measure each recruit's capacity for physical work. And unlike the Harmonium, which only accepted candidates who had completed its six-week program, the Mercykillers just let everyone in first and then assigned them appropriate duties based on their exam results. A lowly prison guard or orderly certainly required less training than a Harmonium officer patrolling the streets. Therefore, the recruits were not expected to complete the trial; the trainers simply recorded the time it took for each namer to collapse from exhaustion. After a brief session of warm-up exercises, Justicar Eran ordered them to begin sprinting around the courtyard. One by one the recruits, at least the ones who had not capitulated earlier in mid-push-up, eventually stopped running and sat down to catch their breath, until only Areldis and another remained.

At that point, her already-weakened body was feeling the effects of fatigue. Her breathing had become labored, and she struggled to continue. Had she been in better health that day, she would have been able to run for a bit more. This time, she had no desire to be victorious. She had already proven herself worthy of the faction's attention with the combat assessment and her score on the written test was most likely very good. She slowed to a walk and then sat on the ground. When the remaining runner passed her, Areldis smiled. She had done enough.

-

That evening at the Last Dance Tavern, an establishment owned and operated by the Mercykiller faction, a celebration of sorts was occurring. Even a few of the more dour patrons offered their congratulations to Morthus Tallhammer for his official entrance into the faction. Morthus, his brother, and several other factioneers sat at the bar joking and drinking. They were all out of uniform and enjoying themselves. When Justicar Melrasat Eran finally arrived, the mood was unusually--and perhaps unhealthily--cheerful, considering that "The Last Dance" was Sigilian slang for a hanging.

Morthus, already a bit tipsy, bellowed, "Eh, Justicar! How were the other namers? Sorrier than last month's?"

A light laughter drifted through the room as Melrasat seated himself at Morwes's left side. The justice greeted him with a smile and then told the barkeep to bring mug of ale for the Justicar. The two of them had a lighthearted discussion of current events, and eventually the subject of the new recruits came up. "That's exactly what I wished to discuss with you," Melrasat told him as he produced a stack of documents from his beige knapsack. He dropped the papers on the table in front of Morwes.

Morthus briefly leaned forward and turned his head to look, but a pair of female hands gently pulled him back. Morthus gave a wry smile, as he saw that it was another woman of the Mercykiller faction who was more than a bit impressed with his brother. "They've been circling him all evening," he told Justicar Eran, "but I feel that he's going to be too drunk to care by night's end."

"You know, for such a large man, one would expect him to be better at handling his alcohol."

"It was your idea, Justicar. Pike, I'm drinking. When's the last time you saw that, eh Mel?"

"Bar that, Morwes," replied an annoyed Melrasat. "Recall that Hiver woman from this morning? Mm-hmm. Great that you do. Honestly, I haven't seen a more notable recruit in years. She has near-perfect marks on our exam, except for the planar geography section, which can be excused on account of her prime origins. Furthermore, she defeated Justice Fersi during her combat assessment and displays remarkable physical--"

Morwes almost choked on his drink as he heard that. Justice Fersi was one of the finest swordsmen he had ever met, and Morwes doubted that he himself could even hope to match the man. After a fit of coughing, he managed to say, "How?"

"I never said she was better than Ranth. Of course he was the superior fighter--Areldis even acknowledged that after the fight. However, she is quite the canny one, and she compensated for her shortcomings. At first, she fought like a complete amateur. It had me fooled, and it definitely had Ranth fooled, so fooled that he let down his guard for Areldis to land a cheap hit."

"That was it? Don't you need two hits?" asked Morwes, who had finally finished his second mug of ale and requested refills in water.

"Ah, you see, she faced him fully prepared. Before the fight, she was digging her boot into the ground. Everyone believed that it was simply nervousness, but in fact she was loosening the dirt, dirt that she later flung at Ranth's face. That's when she won the match."

Morwes's shock turned to annoyance. "Who did she hope to impress with--"

"That filthy jinkskirt won through deception!" a wide-eyed Morthus interjected as he slammed both of his fists on the table. "We oughtta--we oughtta..." He stopped mid-sentence as if thinking of what to say next. When no words came, he broke out in a fit of hoarse laughter.

The old Justicar cleared his throat loudly and pointed to the attractive woman massaging Morthus's shoulders. "Justice Tades! Excuse yourself!" Even though the woman was off duty, she knew better than to disobey the command of a superior. After she had hurried off, Melrasat continued his conversation with Morwes, though at a lower volume. "She impressed me, Morwes. Almost any other in her position would have felt obligated to gloat. Instead, she spoke to Ranth and acknowledged his skill, and told him that the only way for her to have challenged him was through less-than-direct methods. If you read Ranth's comments, you'll see that he wrote only praise. And remember what I have always told you, Morwes: only fools deal honorably with maggot-spawn. Even though we Mercykillers hold true the principles of justice and honor, the criminals that we deal with will invariably not."

After muttering inaudibly for a few seconds, Morthus exclaimed in all drunken seriousness, "She's a baatezu!"

"That's enough. Brother, you've had a bit too much bub!"

Melrasat clutched his graying hair in frustration, and to everyone's annoyance, Morthus raised his fists above his head and began chanting "Ba-a-te-zu! Ba-a-te-zu! Ba-a-te-zu!"

It wasn't long before the bartender put a hand on the man's shoulder and cast a sleep spell. As his brother dozed with face pressed against the table, Morwes looked around and sighed. The other patrons no longer paid Morthus any attention, having resumed their conversations as if nothing had happened. It was very fortunate that the barkeep had magical training, but this was still one of the worst places for one to make such an idiotic public display, if only for a moment. Any disturbance in this Mercykiller-operated business would soon become common talk of the faction. And if this incident was serious enough to attract the attention of faction high-ups, Morthus's record could be stained permanently.

His attention then turned to Justicar Eran, who had been staring at him impatiently. What the old man said was absolutely right. The maggot-spawn, or common slang for the fiends of the lower planes, could not be trusted. Neither could criminals. Meeting such characters head-on all the time would be a sure way of writing oneself into the dead-book.

"I'm not discussing today's recruits merely for our own amusement," Justicar Eran said in a smooth, emotionless voice.

Morwes silently cursed. He had a feeling that the old man had wanted something from him, and now his suspicions were confirmed. Melrasat was his greatest friend within the faction, but pike, he thought, the man wielded considerable influence and almost no Justice in the faction dared to disregard his "suggestions." "What is it that you ask of me, Sir?" Morwes responded, trying hard to sound as cooperative as possible.

"That namer, Areldis. I want her to make Justice within the year."

Morwes knew perfectly what this entailed. When he joined the Red Death a decade ago, Justicar Eran took him under his tutelage and removed numerous obstacles before him. The man, having been retired from field duty due to advancing age, devoted much of his time and energy in training the recruit, partly out of his kind-hearted nature, and partly because he wanted to extend his political influence for years to come, even after his death. He helped Morwes prepare for the Justice examination, and more importantly, he spoke favorably of the boy in front of other faction high-ups. After only two years, the seventeen-year-old Morwes Tallhammer attained the rank of Justice and became a full-time member of the faction. Morwes knew that he would again need Melrasat's vote in order to be promoted to Justicar. And while Justicar Eran was not likely to deliver maledictions to the factol, he could certainly delay the matter a few years. Within a few years, the old man might even retire permanently, leaving Morwes in a true fix. "Justicar Eran, I am always willing to follow any order you issue me. I will take this Areldis and train her, as you trained me."

The right corner of Melrasat's mouth bent upwards in a smile, and the old man chuckled. "Not an order, Morwes. A request, from a friend to a friend. In any case, you seem eager. Good. I'll give you plenty of time. You'll be excused from the fortnightly recruitment sessions, and I'll see what I can do about reducing your other duties."

Maybe this won't be that tiresome, Morwes thought. In fact, he was even a bit curious about this Hiver whom his mentor had so greatly praised. It could even be interesting. Then his gaze shifted to the softly snoring mass slumped over the bar. Sighing with a lowered head, he asked his mentor, almost rhetorically, "What am I going to do with him?"

"Just let him sleep. He's earned it."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 2

The night had been relatively quiet for Areldis, who had been assigned temporary quarters on the ground level of the prison. For hours, she lay motionless on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The room got ever darker as Sigil approached anti-peak, the city's equivalent to a prime material world's midnight. Eventually, it was completely black save for a faint light filtering in through the window from the prison's courtyard. The searchlights never relented, scanning both inward and outward like menacing eyes. Her thoughts drifted to the past, to memories more distant than she had previously believed. The past was shrouded in a haze, and she struggled to see through it. She remembered the forests of home, and the forms of those she called family. However, the faces had become blurred, and the forest had become an amorphous field of browns and greens. Her mind, her very essence had been poisoned by the planes, she knew. For many hours, she fought to remember--it was a battle she had fought every night since arriving in Sigil. So far, it all seemed futile, since oblivion walked away every morning with a few more granules of her memory. Frustrated and defeated, she lapsed into an uneasy slumber.

In the morning, the cawing of gallows crows stirred her from her sleep. The giant black birds were perhaps the only creatures that found the prison pleasant, since fresh corpses hung from the gallows every day. For the Mercykillers, the birds provided the convenient service of picking clean the bones of the executed. The bones could then be sold off for a few stingers to various collectors and academics. Normally, such a cacophonous medley would have been enough to wake Areldis, but she was tired and hungry, but more importantly, she was for once lying in a bed instead of a random street corner. For that, she consciously decided to stay in bed, ignoring the birds' squabbles over a few strips of rancid flesh. A while later, the birds seemed to calm, but that was just a response to the thousand prisoners filing into the courtyard for morning exercises. The prisoners displaced the birds and greatly exceeded their volume; Areldis then found it impossible to rest any longer. She sat up and slumped forward slightly, extending her arms and craning her neck in order to stretch out a bit. Having slept in her clothes, she simply patted her robes down after shuffling out of bed. Not that they actually needed to be straightened, since the cloth was already thick enough to resist wrinkling. On the floor lay her rusty knife, recovered from the faction the previous night, and a standard steel longsword sheathed in a non-descript black scabbard. The sword had been issued to her the previous night. She picked them up; the knife went into her belt unsheathed, while the sword hung at her side. The sword's pommel was stamped with a crude Mercykiller emblem, which Areldis resolved to either cover or obliterate the if she were to travel without drawing attention. The faction symbol on her robe was invisible so long as the hood was not worn, so she didn't consider it an immediate concern.

Areldis left her room and headed back to the prison's main office, taking note of the floor's layout as she walked. When she arrived, she inquired about duties. A harmless-looking secretary there checked the new recruits' order logs and told Areldis that she had none at the moment. She also told the namer to wait in the temporary quarters until orders arrived. To Areldis, something was definitely amiss, since she was told last night that she was to begin duties this morning. She proceeded to demand to be issued duties on the spot. The secretary was at a loss; all she could say was that she did not have the authority. Areldis insisted again, demanding that the woman contact her superiors. The incident might have escalated if Jeireul hadn't arrived just at that moment.

The young half-elf had come on faction business, but he could not help overhearing at least a portion of the exchange between the secretary and the new recruit. It was unfortunate, he thought, since he knew that this secretary had been on the job for two weeks, and she was already getting overwhelmed. Perhaps the faction's attempt to improve public relations by putting an approachable face at the front desk went beyond its intended effect. "Got the chant on that load of green steel I've ordered?" he asked cordially as he approached the desk.

"Uh--no. We haven't received any word f-from our dealer in Acheron, Jeireul--sir. Sorry."

Jeireul shrugged and sighed, though his customary smile remained on his face. "Ahh, can't do a thing 'cept wait. Though if those jinksters bang around anymore, I'd swear they're bobbin' us up." Then after taking a brief but fully intentional pause, he stroked his chin and looked at Areldis. "You know, I might need a little help today. If yer lookin' for work, what'd ya say to helpin' me out some? Won't be too long."

Much to the relief of the secretary, Areldis gave a quick nod and accepted, following Jeireul out the door and not caring to look back. Areldis strode confidently down the hall, towering half a head above the half-elf. They walked in silence, though they soon glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, each attempting to "read" the other. The sidelong stares could have proved troublesome, if Jeireul hadn't again taken the initiative. "Areldis," he said, "That's your name? Yes, I thought so--I'm usually quite good about these things. You know, you shouldn't have been so rough on her. After all, she is new."

Though Areldis did not respond to this, her eyes showed affirmation. "Your speech, Jeireul," she stated calmly.

He did not stop walking, but he did slacken his pace in order to allow for the hand gestures he was so fond of using while speaking. "Yes, I thought you would notice. See, in my job, I have to deal with many people, and I prefer to show them the appearance that they're comfortable with. Many find the planar vernacular charming, though in your case, since you are a prime, I thought that you'd prefer 'normal' speech. I have had decent schooling--courtesy of the faction--and given the situation, I can speak like a Hiver or a like faction high-up. Doesn't matter much to me."

Jeireul had half-expected the silence that Areldis returned, but he was quite surprised to see her crack a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but then reconsidered, not uttering another sound until they had reached the supply room. Once there, Areldis set about aiding Jeireul on his rounds.The place itself was well stocked, or it was once the new supply shipments, which were piled in the center of the front room, were sorted into the storage area. There were the usual weapons and armor, in addition to other items such as various garments, chemicals, and books. The faction stationed a dozen armed guards there at all times, since the place was an obvious target in the event of a prisoners' riot. Also for that reason, there were no prison cells on the first floor of the building. For the most part, the guards stayed at their posts quietly, though they did occasionally break form to chat or crack a joke. Areldis wondered whether Jeireul's disarming countenance had brought about this sense of informality; from what she had seen, people truly felt at ease around him. But there was much more to him than that, she figured.

It took about half an hour for them to complete the job. It would have been much longer, were it not for Areldis's help and the help of two of the guards, who volunteered despite having orders to remain at their posts. They were both young human men, though their slightly weathered expressions hinted at experience. During the course of the task, Areldis surprised everyone by working the most efficiently of them all, doing almost as much work as the two guards combined. When comments about her exceptional strength reached Areldis's ear, she just chuckled and told the others that carrying firewood as a youth had apparently done her some good. They laughed, and the atmosphere was peculiarly light. After finishing, the guards promptly returned to their stations, while Areldis and Jeireul loitered around the front counter attempting to engage each other in conversation.

Because of the lack of common experiences, the discussion quickly drifted into inquiries about each other's pasts. Jeireul was quite open about his, and from him Areldis learned that he was the son of a Doomguard woman who had been executed for arson fourteen years ago. The Doomguard were the faction that championed the principle of entropy, whether actively or passively. Unfortunately, the ones that sought active destruction were traditionally in the majority, and together with the fact that the faction was the largest supplier of weapons in Sigil, they were a constant source of troubles for the forces of law. The only thing that was really restraining them was the ruler of the city, the Lady of Pain, who wouldn't hesitate to slaughter them all if they ever dared to engulf her city in flames. To that end, shortly after the Doomguard's creation in the violence of the Great Upheaval six centuries earlier, its leaders signed a pact with the other factions pledging never to again instigate war. However, as long as their actions didn't cause war, the Doomguard felt that the occasional act of violence was perfectly allowable. In the case of Jeireul's mother, the abandoned Lower Ward building that she set fire to turned out to be not so abandoned after all. She was dragged out to Petitioner's Square after one of the shortest trials in Sigil's history and was executed by sword in the presence of a furious, jeering crowd.

In the aftermath, the Mercykillers won custody of 6-year-old Jeireul and placed the boy into a relatively well-to-do namer's family in the Clerk's Ward. His new family provided for him well, treating him as one of their own. Because the Red Death did not believe in the transference of guilt, it was fairly common for the faction to raise and educate the orphans of executed criminals in the hope that such children, when guided by the "proper light of Justice," would become productive members of society. Indeed, Jeireul did, joining the faction at the age of sixteen. Though he lacked the physical strength for guard duty and the natural ability for magic, his diligence and amiable personality soon earned him a position in logistics. This was his second year in the prison's supply room.

Areldis's tale was mostly fabrication, but she spoke of it so vividly and naturally that not even an experienced Justicar would not have found reason to be suspicious. In her words, she grew up in the woods, where she spent her days hunting and fishing. When she turned eighteen, she headed for the city and did odd jobs here and there for about a dozen years, working under various carpenters, blacksmiths, and inventors. She had even once been a letter carrier for a regional noble. The previous year, she had landed a position as a wizard's assistant, but after only a month on the job, she was transported to the outer planes in an unfortunate job-related accident. She eventually wandered into Sigil and managed to stay alive by doing a little of this and a little of that, just as she always did. It was an easily defendable story, since Areldis possessed the skills that she claimed to have acquired. She had been taught blacksmithing, carpentry, and chemistry by her father and had learned the basics of magic from her mother, and though she didn't really leave home until age thirty, she was not completely ignorant of the outside world. Her father had been a learned traveler of the prime material and of the outer planes, and she had read nearly every one of his travel records and essays. She always suspected that the man had lived in Sigil for some time, but he had written very little on the city and spoke of it even less.

In any case, Jeireul seemed suitably impressed by Areldis's "history." "You seem to have lived a varied and interesting life, Namer. I'm wondering, since you are a tradeswoman and all, if you'd happen to do appraisals. We confiscate supplies from time to time, and a good deal of it just sits around in the storage area. Unfortunately, I have nothing in the way of magic or trade skills, and I'd rather not deal with independent appraisers. In short, I'm asking if you'd like to work here. It would be of great benefit to me, and it does pay you a little better than guard duty."

"I can do that. In fact, I figure I'm pretty good at judging the quality of most common items--and some magical ones as well, though I might not be able to set a price. I'm not too familiar with this city's marketplace. And about your offer, I will definitely consider it. Right now, though, do you have any food? I haven't had anything to eat all day."

Jeireul opened the counter's lowest drawer and brought out a small burlap sack. "Help yourself," he said, as dropped it on the counter in front of Areldis.

She opened the bag. Hardtack biscuits. She grabbed one and crunched down on it greedily, for it was food and she really didn't care as long as it was edible. After successfully grinding the first in her mouth and laboriously downing it, she immediately set about on another. It really wasn't bad at all. Halfway through the second one, she paused to say, "So, Jeireul, why are you so short of help?"

"Personnel shuffles, casualties, retirement, low recruitment, among other things. There are a few reasons. I also have a few subordinates, but they haven't come in yet."

Before Areldis could respond, Justice Morwes Tallhammer, in full uniform, strode into the room, one corner of his mouth bent into a grin. "Justice Edali, stealing the cony today, are we?"

"Bally sod," replied Jeireul, on the verge of laughing. "Ya know full well that I'm not Justice yet. So what do ya need? Don't mind her. She was helpin' me get all this junk together."

"Well, I think I should mind." He looked to Areldis with a fairly neutral expression. "You're coming with me--faction's orders."

She tried to return the bag of hardtack, but Jeireul just put his palm out towards her. "Keep it, Namer."

With a nod, she turned and followed Morwes out.

The two of them walked in silence until they had exited the prison though the front gates. "You're not going to ask where I'm taking you, eh?" Morwes suddenly turned and asked.

"I see no need, Justice. Orders are orders, and I will do as the faction tells me."

"Ahh, yes, you first gave the secretary quite a fright with your demand for duties, and then you volunteered for manual labor with Jeireul in supply. I must say, you are much more determined today than you were yesterday. You used to have a habit of wandering off, if I remember correctly."

"Today, I am a Mercykiller. I am a servant of Justice, and I will conduct myself as one."

"Hmph. Apparently you impressed my friend Melrasat greatly yesterday--so greatly, in fact, that he has asked me to provide you with some help." He paused and extended his right arm, pointing to her. "You, Areldis, are going to be a Justice, and I'll make sure that you get there as soon as possible."

Areldis's face was expressionless, but deep inside she was grinning from ear to ear. She had successfully drawn the attention of the faction's officers, and her antics this morning had served to confirm their expectations. "I-I am honored. What must I do?"

Morwes tossed a small cloth pouch into Areldis's hand. "Here are some greens. Go buy what you need, take a walk around the ward, and don't get yourself dead-booked. Head to my kip at around two past peak--the address is in the bag." After saying that, he waved once and headed down the street.

"I'll be there, sir," Areldis cried just before the Justice's figure rounded the corner of the prison and disappeared.

-

Unlike in the other marketplaces of Sigil, the merchants of the Lady's Ward carried out their business quietly, since not even the most foolhardy would dare make a fuss at the Harmonium and Mercykiller factions' doorsteps. As a result, the prices there were lower than those found in the Market Ward. For many merchants, it was a suitable trade-off for security, and the streets surrounding the prison contained hundreds of stores and open-air stands, though no one carried the more exotic items for good reason. As Areldis toured the streets with half-eaten hardtack in hand, she was startled by the diversity of the shoppers, who included celestials, fiends, and a dozen things in between. The Hive, she had remembered, was populated by the mortal races, most notably humans with the occasional tiefling, bariaur, or githzerai thrown in. The majority of the Hive's inhabitants lived there not by choice, but because they were simply too poor to go anywhere else. By contrast, the much wealthier Lady's Ward was the center of political and economic power, and it attracted many influential beings from throughout the multiverse. And since open warfare was forbidden by the Lady of Pain herself, the city's richer parts were a choice recreation ground for baatezu and tanar'ri weary from the Blood War.

The bag that Morwes had given her contained twenty-six copper commons, most of which had indeed turned green. Copper tended to corrode when handled by the fiendish races--hence the nickname of "greens" given to the coins by Cagers. Silver pieces were "stingers," since touching the metal was painful for many fiends, and gold pieces were "jinx" due to the common belief of gold being the root of greed and therefore unlucky. With twenty greens, exactly the number of corroded coins in the bag, Areldis bought half a dozen red Arcadian apples and some meat jerky. The meat was rather typical, but she did find the apples' taste to be quite satisfying, as the fruit seemed to have all of its flavors in perfect harmony--not too sweet, not too sour, not too starchy, and generally just right. She ate these over the next hour or so while perusing the area's shops, despite her inability to afford much else. By seeming to adjust the position her scabbard slightly now and then, she drew attention to her sword pommel's Mercykiller insignia. Many shopkeepers, upon noticing it, quickly lowered their eyes and spoke in even more reserved tones. She found this highly amusing.

As she toured, she eventually noticed a certain vinegarish scent about her. At first she thought that it was merely some peddler's cart, but after the smell had lingered for a bit, she grew suspicious. Her eyes darted from side to side, and she sniffed the air. It didn't take her more than a minute to locate the source of the odor. A human boy of about ten years of age was walking about with a sheet of paper in one hand and a blue knapsack slung over his right shoulder. He had a disoriented and somewhat bewildered look on his face as he maneuvered around the marketplace. However, Areldis suspected that it was no mere child; she had remembered from her readings that the smell of vinegar was a distinct feature of the abishai, one of the lower-ranking varieties of baatezu. She positioned herself next to the boy's path, and when he passed, her left hand shot out and gripped his shoulder. "Your shapeshifting needs improvement," she said as her "victim" stared wide-eyed.

The child lifted his left arm and sniffed. "Oh dear," he muttered. Then, quickly shaking himself free of Areldis's grasp, he dashed away clumsily, looking even more befuddled than before. For a moment, Areldis didn't know whether to continue staring in surprise or to break out in laughter, though the presence of a few Mercykiller patrolmen soon discouraged her from the latter. Continuing as if nothing had happened, she ambled around the Lady's Ward some more until she noticed--by matching the shade of the Sigilian sky with the corresponding index mark on a time pole--that the time was a bit after one past peak. She drew the slip of paper from the leather pouch, and taking note of the address, she started in a run towards the Mercykiller Faction's residential areas.

-

"One Seventy-one, one seventy-one," Areldis muttered to herself. What she had thought to be a painless task proved very troublesome. The convoluted layout of Sigil's smaller streets was an untamable beast, even when subjected to the hands of the most orderly organizations. Seemingly simple left-right directions fell apart when applied to the morass. After much frustration, backtracking, and sighing, she finally reached a door with the number "171" cut neatly into its surface. Knocking, she announced, "Areldis. I'm here." When she heard Morwes reply, "Enter!" she pushed the door open and went inside.

The Justice was slumped over his desk at the far end of the room, resting his head on the crook of his left arm. He was out of his uniform, clad in a simple gray tunic and brown trousers. He rose in his seat in response to the namer's arrival, stretching his arms out and yawning before he stood to greet her. "Ah, you've made it. Ahead of time, I may add, though that's a bit unfortunate for me."

"You seemed fine this morning."

"I met you last in the presence of the faction, a place where I couldn't very well allow my fatigue to show. But yes, I am exhausted."

"Did something happen?"

"Last evening Justicar Melrasat and I--" He caught himself and mid-sentence, realizing that he was on the verge of seriously offending the namer by revealing too much. Rubbing his forehead in frustration, he continued, "It was my brother. He drank too much and made an asinine spectacle in a faction-operated tavern. Needless to say, I spent much of the night apologizing for the inebriated clod. Even had to draft a letter to the factol in which I claimed responsibility for Morthus's less-than-exemplary behavior."

"You took the blame for it? Wasn't it that old Justicar's idea?"

"Good memory. However, I trust Mel. I am certain that it will ultimately turn out for the better."

"Have you taken any punishment for it?"

"Officially, it's standing before me. However, since I had already been ordered to play mentor, it is probably no punishment at all." The corner of his mouth twisted into a cautious grin.

Areldis glanced to the side and paused to take in this felicitous turn of events. Though she had been putting on a show for attention, she had not expected to gain the faction's eye this quickly. "I will not disappoint you, Sir. What do I have to do?"

Morwes nodded and walked listlessly to his bed, bending down to pull several large tomes out from under it, placing them neatly in a single stack at the foot of the bed. From what Areldis could tell from the covers, all of them dealt with various aspects of Sigilian law and political structure. Though they were a bit dusty, they were all in more or less excellent condition, probably owing to the justice's meticulous nature. After all the books, six in total, had been brought out, Morwes straightened himself, and while dusting off his pants told Areldis that she would have to familiarize herself with the texts. He told her that it did not take a genius to get the rank of justice; anyone with enough hard work and a good memory could do it, since simply knowing the law to a fairly exacting degree was the main concern of the examinations. Though there were questions of interpretation, they were there mainly for the purpose of weeding out ideological inconsistencies.

To Areldis, the situation appeared to be very ironic, for while the faction championed ideological standardization and discouraged free thinking, its individual members could vary like night and day. Mercykillers, she noticed, could be kind or cruel, arrogant or meek--indeed a broad spectrum of personalities had been brought under the canopy of justice. However, since their primary plane of influence was Acheron, a definite streak of cruelty did run through much of the faction. Still, she vaguely remembered reading in her youth that the original Mercykillers were created out of an uneasy alliance between a sect of paladins and a league of assassins. In all likelihood, tensions still lay under the surface, even after hundreds of years. "Justice," she asked, "have you been here in Sigil the whole time?"

"No, actually, the choice to reside here was a conscious decision. My brother and I were actually born in the Outlands, and we came to Sigil nine years ago, one year after I had joined the faction."

"But the Cage. It's crowded, filthy, and the rain is blex worthy of a cesspit. Surely there are more pleasant places for a Mercykiller to live."

"I'll readily admit that it's not pleasant, but the fact that Sigil is situated at the center of everything presents opportunities that are not available elsewhere."

"So you're looking to stay here for the rest of your life, then? Going to be a good proud Sigilian codger, eh?"

Taking a moment to stroke his chin in contemplation, Morwes answered with a huge grin, "Of course. As they all say, duty and justice above all else. I wouldn't have it any other way." He flexed his eyebrows facetiously.

Damn, he was a sharp one, Areldis realized. She had hoped to infer his personal view of Mercykiller philosophy from the attitude expressed towards various planar locales, but he dodged it. He was reveling in that fact. "Sir, I--"

"Not necessary. My function at this time is only to help you along the path of justice. If I have any idiosyncrasies in my beliefs, it is certainly not my duty to pass them on to you." His voice had become quietly firm, in contrast to the slightly jocular and gilt-edged tone that Areldis was used to hearing.

"How should I start, then?"

"Well, take these books home. Learn the law. If you have questions, come to me. Just so you know, you are free to visit my kip at any time."

"So I should head back to the prison now, right?"

Morwes's lips trembled for a moment, before opening to emit good-hearted laughter. Given the competence displayed in her recruitment exam, it was rather silly that she could be ignorant of such basic procedures. "You know, Namer, there are over five thousand Mercykillers in this city, and there is nowhere near that much space to accommodate them all in headquarters. You should have requisitioned a kip in the residential area. Of course, the faction would take a portion out of your salary to cover expenses, but it should be affordable for you, given the low cost of living in this district."

Looking aside and giving an embarrassed chuckle, Areldis said, "Yes, um, I'll go do that. And I'll return shortly." She at once left in a hurried, shuffling pace, though once out of sight, she stopped, exhaled, and continued in a half-hearted amble.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 3

Getting a faction kip was a relatively simple, hassle-free process. The secretary whom Areldis had unduly accosted earlier in the day was still there, sitting in a state of slight agitation during the whole process. To ease tensions, Areldis put on a pleasant, faintly smiling face and adopted a calm, easygoing tone. After she had filled out some brief but necessary paperwork, the secretary gave her a key with the number of her kip, "232," etched on it. The secretary explained to her that rent was free for the first month, after which she would have to pay twenty silver per month, though she assured Areldis that it was quite affordable given most namers' starting salaries. Before leaving, Areldis made sure to ask again for the duty roster. This time, she was not disappointed; the secretary promptly handed over the document. However, Areldis couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as she read it. Normally, as Justicar Eran had explained the previous night, a newly recruited namer had to undergo a brief on-the-job evaluation period. This was necessary because the Mercykiller faction did not take the luxury of putting its potential recruits through an intensive Harmonium-style boot camp. There was simply no way to skirt around the fact that the basic faction training offered to Sigil's police officers was incomparably better than that offered to its prison guards--for good reason. Guarding prisoners required little more than an alert eye and a fair amount of physical strength, and for that reason most namers began their careers with some simple guard duty in the hallway of some dismal cellblock. She, on the other hand, was assigned to work for the faction's courier service, starting at twelve stingers per week. The namers assigned to guard duty started at fifteen silver weekly, and the one recruit selected to be an interrogator received twenty.

She was opening her mouth to object when she suddenly thought better of it, handing the document back expressionlessly and walking away. Not at all pleased with her expected salary, she decided that it was time to see Jeireul about his earlier offer. She found the boy lying comfortably on a cot in a corner of the supply room. There was some rustling in the back room, which Areldis assumed to be some other supply officer attending to his or her duties. Jeireul stood up, dusted himself off, and greeted Areldis, his tanned elven face wearing a charming, boyish smile. "Aah, Areldis, how goes your day?"

"Just splendid, considering that I just discovered that I'll be running letters for a dozen stingers a week."

"So you're here about my offer, I assume?"

"How much are you offering?" She cracked a smile back at him.

"Twenty sound good?"

"Very."

"I'll see what I can--"

At that moment, a tall woman with neck-length ashen hair strutted out from the back room and tapped Jeireul on the shoulder. Like most Mercykillers, she wore a standard suit of black leather armor adorned with faction insignia. A brown leather sack hung at her right hip, suspended by a long, thick strap that looped across her left shoulder. She appeared quite young, and despite the graying hair, the only wrinkles that could be discerned were two tiny vertical lines at the corners of her mouth, one at each end. Her rather elegant oval face would have been considered pretty by conventional standards save one salient feature: the eyes. Jet-black irises completely obscured her pupils, which, when combined with her pale skin and graying hair, gave her an eerie, penetrating gaze that had Areldis more than slightly perturbed.

Jeireul tilted his back, and while staring at the woman, he announced, "Aah, so you've finally decided to show yourself!" He snapped his head back with a laugh.

"Well, I think it would be discourteous for not to greet my new subordinate," she replied, gesturing towards Areldis. Abruptly, while glaring at Jeireul, she added in a lower and harsher tone, "Whom you were trying to steal."

Suddenly realizing that the woman was in all likelihood her soon-to-be boss, Areldis only managed to stammer out, "Sir, I--I--" before realizing that neither of them was paying attention to her. Instead, they seemed to be in a friendly dispute. Many strings of curses were hurled about over the next minute or so, but every unflattering word was softened by smiling lips. The two Mercykillers seemed to be having a thoroughly good time.

"You done?" Jeireul finally asked after a brief and somewhat awkward pause in the argument.

"Very well, miscreant. Let's talk this over." She looked to Areldis, who was still silently waiting. "I should introduce myself. I am Justice Thana Alsim, and as you've probably guessed by now, I head this faction's courier service." With hands clasped behind her back, she strolled forward to Areldis's side. "Hasn't it struck you as a bit odd that Jeireul is essentially the only one running the supply operation here?"

"Yes."

"Mm-hmm. And what explanation, if any, did he offer you?"

"Personnel shuffles, retirement, casualties, and the like." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jeireul lower his head and look away.

Justice Alsim broke into a fit of hysterical laughter. "Yes, yes, I guess that could work. Personnel shuffles into prison, retirement into prison, and casualties of incarceration! What this dear boy neglected to tell you was that we had to purge the supply section about a month ago. The corruption festered so deep that we actually had a veritable gang of thieves running a black market enterprise from the faction's stocks. Well, fortunately, Jeireul here discovered their little business and notified the rest of the faction. As a result, we've jailed nearly twenty officers, and Jeireul was promoted out of necessity."

"He seems capable enough," Areldis remarked.

"No question. I love the little berk. Hells, Factol Mallin loves him. Mallin's been trying to promote him ever since he first expressed desire to join the faction. However, this is not about Jeireul. The point is that we are currently undergoing an extensive audit in logistics, an audit that includes a team of Harmonium that has taken a perverse liking to dragging our people to the interrogation room, sometimes grilling them for hours over the most inconsequential of details. Simply stated, it's a mess, and I'd advise you to stay the hells away until the dust settles."

"But Thana, I need the help. I'm up to my armpits in this blek day in and day--"

The woman's left hand shot out from behind her back and pointed at Jeireul. "Lonely in the blex-pit, are you? Regardless, even now that Areldis fully aware of the situation, I still won't let her work for you. You say that you need people, Edali. Well, so do I. The courier service is run with a minimal staff, as you very well know. Why did you pick her of all people to peel?"

Jeireul stepped out from behind the counter and approached the two women, stopping directly in front of Justice Alsim, looking at her intensely at nearly eye-level. "I need an appraiser. I need someone to help me assess the quality of the items that cross our hands from time to time."

"What, you mean the bits we take from prisoners? Wouldn't an identify spell suffice?"

"In case you haven't noticed, my skills in magic are even worse than yours. Also, magical identification is near worthless with _non_-magical items. Areldis here has worked the trades; she should be able to inspect the worksmanship of common goods. Also, she's stronger than she looks." The boy smiled tentatively, hoping that Justice Alsim would relax her stance.

"Oh? And what makes you so sure of her ability?" came Thana's nonchalant answer.

"I--"

"Let's have a test, then, shall we? Stand up, Namer!"

As Areldis stood up, Justice Alsim then removed a golden ring from her left ring finger. While Jeireul observed intensely, she held the piece of jewelry out in her hand and motioned for Areldis to take it. The namer, after a moment of hesitation, picked it up with her thumb and forefinger, marveling at the myriad of intricate, swirling ridges that adorned the ring's surface, which to her seemed vaguely elven in design. To get a better view, she walked to the courtyard window and held the ring into the light. A lengthy inscription on the inside of the ring came into view, an inscription that Areldis instantly recognized as Elvish; the graceful form of the lettering was unmistakable, especially for one who had been raised by an elf. However, with only a functional knowledge of the language, Areldis was left struggling to fill in the blanks. She guessed that it had something to do with wishing the wearer a long and healthy life, but she wasn't completely certain, since the inscription appeared to be in an archaic form of the language. In any case, she soon realized that a full translation was irrelevant, as well as being completely beyond her meager abilities. Her eyes ran through the line of text once again, and a few moments later she noticed an anomaly. Though the ring's calligraphy was exquisite, the form of the letters appeared a bit strange, even inconsistent. Letters would vary slightly in form, indicating with fair certainty that the smith did not have a trained elven hand. However, given the level of workmanship displayed in the ring, he or she was no mean artisan. The inscription was most likely a non-elf jeweler's attempt at elven script. Areldis lowered the ring and turned around to face Thana, who observed her subordinate with an ambiguous grin. "What is the average cost of a plain golden ring in these parts?" Areldis inquired.

"Ten jinx or so?" She turned her head, glancing at Jeireul out of the corner of her eye. "That sound right?"

Jeireul nodded.

Areldis thought about her answer. A finely worked elven ring could often go for ten times the amount of its plain counterpart. Of course, half of that cost was just the elven "label." "I'd say about fifty gold, sir," she finally said as she returned the ring.

"Is that right?" Justice Alsim replied sarcastically.

"Yes, I--"

"I wasn't asking you. You see, namer, I had this bit taken to an authorized jewel appraiser last week, one's that had a considerable record of service to this faction. The price I received was no less than a hundred and twenty gold."

A still bewildered Jeireul asked, "Which one?"

"Vino, of course."

Jeireul mouth opened but no sound came out; he then threw up his arms. "You win, Thana."

"Glad you conceded, boy. Come, Areldis; you have work to do." Triumphantly grinning holding her head high, she started for the door.

Before Areldis could follow, the young half-elf grabbed the woman's left shoulder, pulling her down a few inches in order to whisper into her ear. "I'll see you later, all right?"

Justice Alsim, upon noticing that her new subordinate was still standing with Jeireul, stopped by the doorframe and glared at them with a severely annoyed expression. Areldis was quick to notice; she shook free of Jeireul's grip and hurried to her new boss. After sighing with a disdainful "puh," Justice Alsim headed out with Areldis trailing a respectful three to four feet behind. They stopped in the main lobby. There, Justice Alsim gave Areldis her first assignment. "Take this letter to the Harmonium barracks and make sure it gets to the Guvner adjunct stationed there. She'll know what to do with it."

Areldis felt like speaking, as she was naturally curious about the contents of the small brown envelope in her hands, but she quickly figured that it was best not to overstep her bounds again today. She backed away, straightened herself, and saluted briskly. Right as she was turning around and preparing to walk out the door, Justice Alsim's called to her. "You may need this, Namer." The graying woman removed the leather sack she wore at her side and tossed it into Areldis's waiting hands. The namer placed the letter into the sack, looping the strap over her left shoulder and across her chest. She nodded respectfully and headed out.

As she walked down the cobbled road in the general direction of the barracks, she weighed the situation. On one hand, she had her delivery to perform. On the other, she had told Morwes that she was going to pick up his books. The young man did make a better impression on her than Justice Alsim her hawkish demeanor. Plus, she was a bit curious about her new kip. After thinking for a few seconds, the choice was easy to make. She turned around and made for the residential quarter in a run.

-

When she finally reached Morwes's door, she stopped for a moment to collect her breath. Her body, she noted once again, was not up to its normal standards of health. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the shutters of the window to the left of the door opened. Morwes stuck his head out and told her, "Ah. You have returned. Feel free to enter." He then disappeared into the kip's dim lighting.

As Morwes bade, she entered the small house without hesitation. The young man stood leaning against the far wall. He was still dressed in his gray tunic and brown trousers, and at first glance it seemed that he was taking the day off. However, the many sheets of ink smeared paper that littered his work table proved otherwise. "I have come to get the books, sir," Areldis said while straightening herself and saluting.

"They are on the bed. You did manage to get a room, right?"

"Yes, I live in 232 down that way."

"I take it that the leather sack hanging by your hip means that you're in the employ of our courier service?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Morwes sighed in frustration. "Apparently Old Mel does not have that much influence."

Though Aleldis immediately realized what he was implying, she decided to feign ignorance. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You would benefit from duties of a less stringent nature. As a full-time courier, you will be severely pressed for time and energy. Both are quite essential for your studies."

"I'm sure I'll be able to fit in some reading time here and there. Though, speaking truthfully, the job pays like crap and the boss is a petty tyrant."

"In the past, the job of courier was usually given to the some of the youngest members of the faction, particularly those with little or no prospects for promotion. It's a similar demographic from which most commercial delivery services recruit. At some point in the Mercykillers' past, we figured that it was simply more efficient to handle our important communications personally. Now, the word floating on your lips right now is most probably "why?" Why have you been stuck in the so-called dead end department? For one, judging from your exam marks, you have a very good grasp of this city's geography. In addition, you seem to have excellent stamina. However, to put the entire matter concisely: this faction is understaffed."

"I did hear that there was a recent Harmonium bust in our supply office, but I don't see how exactly that influences the courier service."

"That? That's a relatively minor problem in comparison to what has been happening. Recruitment rates have been low for the past three years. It may have not seemed that way to you last night, but do remember that this is the middle of Retributus, our faction's month. In six months' time, I expect our recruitment to drop off to approximately...zero. Of course, we could always transfer personnel from Acheron, but that has other problems." He turned away momentarily and turned back with a smile. "But you do know what this means."

Nodding slowly, Areldis replied, "Less competition for me."

"Good. You are a sharp one. Believe me, this decline in recruitment is very much a temporary situation. It is inconceivable that the high-ups will allow this faction to just waste away, since, for all practical purposes we are a state institution ordained by the Lady herself. Even if it necessitates drastic measures in the near future, our ranks will eventually increase. In the interim, a blood could set himself up quite nicely. What is your salary, Namer?"

"Twelve silver weekly."

"Three years ago, the starting wage was six. Twelve's not the best, but it will do for now. The only real concern I have for you is that of your workload. Knowing Thana, she will make you run from one end of this city to the other from morning to dusk."

Feeling a wave of frustration wash over her, Areldis muttered, "That woman..."

"Leave that to me. Thana can be a handful, and she has been known to terrorize her subordinates, but she is really a decent woman at heart. I will speak to her, and she will listen to reason. Now, do you have to deliver something, or is that courier sack just for show?"

"Right, right, right," Areldis said as she threw her hands in the air. "I have to get a piking letter to the Guvner adjunct at the Barracks."

"Well, carry on with it. No sense in delaying you. If you aren't too busy tonight, do make sure to drop in at the Last Dance at around seven past. It quite customary for new faction members to congregate there the night after their recruitment. The tavern is located a block up from the prison, and you will not have trouble finding it."

"I'll be there sir." She saluted once more and picked up her books, holding them in a stack against her chest and abdomen. She then showed herself out. As she walked in the general direction of her new kip, she decided that she rather liked this Morwes character. She suspected that this whole mentoring arrangement was part of Morwes's bid for career advancement. If she were to excel in her duties, much credit would naturally go to him. However, that hardly mattered. The way she saw it, the advancement of Morwes's career through the promotion of hers was a win-win situation for the both of them. For the time being, he would be a close and valued ally.

After walking a winding path down a few blocks, Areldis finally reached kip #232. It was a shabby little thing, smaller than Morwes's, but then she didn't have a second person living with her, so it wasn't that disappointing. All she really wanted was a space to herself in which she could rest. Fumbling around in her robe's pocket with he free hand, she eventually found the key and stuck it into the keyhole. She turned the knob and pushed, but the door didn't budge. There was not even the telltale rattle of a locked door. She leaned into the knob. Nothing. After tentatively prodding the door a couple more times, she placed her books on the ground, turned the doorknob, and then slammed into the door with her right shoulder. A loud ripping noise signaled the liberation of the door from its frame; it now swung freely on its hinges. Areldis felt the uneven and bumpy surface of the doorframe. Apparently, someone had been overzealous in the application of brown paint, paint that had kept the door and its frame glued together. She picked up her books and carried them inside.

Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, but there wasn't much to see anyway. The room was laid out in a fifteen by twenty rectangle with the entrance at the extreme right side of the kip's front. Across the entrance was a closed section that appeared to be a closet, and next to the window on the far wall, there sat a desk much like the one Morwes had. The room's only other furnishing was a blocky-looking bed frame, which didn't even have a mat of straw to soften its boards. She plopped the books down beside the bed and proceeded to give the frame a good shake. To her surprise, it didn't give the slightest rattle. The Mercykillers do design for utility, she reminded herself. She then opened the door to her closet and peered in. A strange bowl-shaped contraption that was half-filled with water caught her eye. It was no mere closet. It was one of those new water closets that were installed in most major public facilities in Sigil. She had used one of them several times back at the prison, and she thought it was a marvelous idea. In the past few years, Sigil had been implementing a vigorous plumbing initiative. So far, only the Lady's Ward had widespread access to such facilities, though, limited access or not, it did work wonders with the smells of the street. Areldis remembered that the one thing she came to despise most about cities in general was the lingering odor of excrement. Having spent a childhood in the woods, she had long ago concluded that urban population aggregates were wholly unnatural. And having lived in the filth of the Hive, she really appreciated the relatively fresh air of the Lady's Ward. Chuckling, she told herself, "Sigil really is the center of it all." Then taking one last look around at her new abode, she resumed her postponed mission to the City Barracks and headed out.

-

The City Barracks was smaller than Sigil's prison, its footprint barely a tenth that of the prison. However it was nonetheless an imposing sight. It shared the same square layout as the larger building, with a guard tower overlooking each of the four corners. Prominent skyward-pointing spikes implanted on the roofs of the towers were an omnipresent tribute to the ruler of the city, the Lady of Pain. Smaller spikes formed neat rows of teeth along the tops of the four walls. Like at the Prison, adjacent roads were heavily patrolled, so no passerby dared to raise the slightest fuss. When Areldis got within a hundred feet of the structure, guards near the front entrance caught notice and began eying her. She noticed their gazes, but she walked up to the entrance unfazed all the same. A guard told her to stop and asked her business. He was young and seemed to have not been long out of training, but he carried himself with the same confident demeanor that was characteristic of the faction. With pride he wore his uniform of polished red mail, which looked especially resplendent in the open light. The bladed spines of his pauldrons and helmet held a menacing glint.

"A messenger from the Mercykillers," she replied with a polite nod.

The guard stepped aside. Areldis opened the main doors, but paused momentarily before entering. She looked upward at the arch above the door, which was molded into the likeness of two arms clasped together in a single fist. Inside, the spacious main lobby was crowded by an unusually large number of people. She waded past the lines to the crescent-shaped receptionist's desk, drawing annoyed and somewhat fearful glances from everyone else. "Greetings, the Mercykiller faction sends--"

The red-robed receptionist, who was furiously scribbling down notes on a pad of paper, didn't even bother to look up as she interrupted. Her shoulder-length auburn hair hung down in a tousled umbrella, obscuring her face from view. "End of the line," she said calmly.

"Excuse me? I have a--"

"Wait your turn." This time her voice came with added force. She then motioned with her left hand. A male tiefling at the head of the line stepped forward and proceeded to deliver a series of complaints against the Harmonium, the courts, and the justice system in general. All the while, the receptionist took notes studiously. When the tiefling finally took a moment to rest his lungs, Areldis seized the opportunity and interjected, "Look, I just have to give this letter to--"

Again the receptionist didn't even bother to look up. "Here in the Harmonium, there's a thing called regulation. I don't know how much a Mercykiller like you would know of it, but at the very least you should learn that within these walls, adherence to regulation is expected. Now, back of the line. I won't tell you again."

Though at this time Areldis was beginning to feel truly insulted, she realized that trying to reason with the woman was an impossibility. Biting back her pride, she turned about and placed herself at the end of the line. There were thirty to forty people ahead of her, and from the looks of things, it was going to be a long wait. She sighed in frustration.

For the next two hours, Areldis stood in queue. The dozens before her advanced one by one, each pleading their case to the officer at the desk. She let them ramble on apparently to their hearts' content, only stopping them to calmly ask for clarification or further explanation. When she finished hearing one case, she handed a sheet of notes and instructions to a guard. Sometimes a guard would escort a petitioner into the barracks proper, and sometimes the guards would show him or her the door, assuring a quick resolution to whatever matter that had been brought up. In a couple of instances, the guards simply grabbed the hapless Cager and tossed him out into the street. Although Areldis found that amusing, in no way did it make up for the hours of standing in line. Having grown up away from the cities, standing in line was something to which she was acutely unaccustomed, and it annoyed her to no end. Eventually, she was once again at the desk. With letter in hand, she said, "I have a letter to deliver." She said it with as much unperturbed confidence as she could muster, though really her heart was no longer in it.

This time, the seated officer lifted her face, her eyes meeting Areldis's in an expressionless stare. Areldis was taken aback as she beheld a disgustingly immaculate visage, fair and unblemished like a model of emotionless, statue-like perfection. The penetrating glare of the officer's dark eyes had Areldis reel back in her mind. She just stood there as the officer snatched the letter from her hands. The officer turned towards a young armored guard resting in a corner of the room. "Eh, Vons. What time is it?"

The guard got up from his spot on the floor and walked to the door, peering out at dimming sky. After giving the matter a bit of consideration, he replied, "I'd say around half past five."

The officer held out the letter, clasped between her index and middle fingers. Areldis took it back with a puzzled expression on her face. "What's the matter?"

"Your request cannot be handled at this moment. Do return first thing tomorrow morning."

Areldis's face paled with shock before regaining its hue through anger. "What?!"

"The Fraternity of Order Adjunct left her post at five. You will need to return in the morning."

Her indignation rising to a boiling point, Areldis nevertheless tried her best to keep her head. "All I needed was to deliver this letter to the Guvner here. It would've taken a minute at most. Yet you made me wait for two hours! This would have been easier for everyone if you just--"

"Rules are rules. You weren't the only one with business this afternoon. You still aren't." She pointed at the five citizens standing patiently behind Areldis. "Do return tomorrow."

Damnit, what am I going to do? Areldis asked herself. If she returned without delivering the letter, she had a feeling that her bitch of a boss wouldn't let her rest easy for the next week and a half. "All right, how about I give you this letter and let you read it? Maybe you can pass the message along or something, because I really must get this thing done today."

"It is not for my eyes, nor is it for my hands."

"Damn your regulations. Just take a bleeding look at it, will you?"

The receptionist's previously emotionless face twisted into a sneer. "There's something about you Mercykillers that you never piking get. The fact that you are on a mission doesn't mean that you have priority over the multiverse. Do you know what half this blex today was about? Complaints about collateral damages incurred in your faction's investigations. Justice is law and regulation, not an excuse. Any Harmonium notary could tell you that, and any Harmonium notary would not have thrown a shit about being made to wait in line!"

"Piss off, hardhead!" Areldis yelled in rage.

"What did you say?" The Harmonium officer stood up in a flash and a tense silence filled the air. Though Areldis was half a foot taller and outweighed her by at least thirty pounds, the officer did not seem intimidated. For a moment, it looked like the shorter woman was reaching for her sword. However, in a flash, she was back in her chair. Her chest was swelling and heaving with deep breaths.

Before Areldis could react, she felt the letter being pulled from her hands. A wiry man who looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties had taken it, and he proceeded to tear it open before Areldis could offer a coherent response. "It's fine, it's fine. I'm a Guvner, see?" he told everyone, pointing to the Fraternity of Order pin on his otherwise unadorned black shirt. This man had a slightly receding hairline, drooping shoulders, and few deep wrinkles on his forehead. He looked tired, even though it was clear he wasn't. His drooping eyes and lengthy nose bridge made his face reminiscent of that of an old workhorse. However, it the man's well-groomed beard and unblemished swarthy complexion suggested a lifetime spent comfortably indoors. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," the man muttered as he read the letter. "All right, all right. This shouldn't be too hard to fix."

"What does it say?" asked Areldis.

"Basically, some berk in your faction got a too lively and was arrested for public drunkenness. He's been cooling off in the basement of the City Barracks for the past two days, awaiting trial. However, our two factions talked things over and decided that he would be pronounced guilty and sent back immediately to the Mercykillers for processing. That's what the Mercykillers wanted to tell the Guvner Adjunct so that she could tell the Harmonium to ship the sod off to the prison."

"So that's it? Am I done?"

The man tilted his head and scratched his chin. "You know, you might want to return the sod yourself, considering that the Harmonium is presently less than cooperative. Saves some trouble, wouldn't you say?" He called the guard. "Eh, Vasya, could you show us where Ahn Mital is?"

"That Mercykiller? Yes, I believe so, Judge Satariel."

The Guvner's face brightened as if a sudden realization hit him. "Oh, that's right, I am Judge Esemeli Satariel," he said with a bow. "Your name, Mercykiller?"

"Areldis, just Areldis."

"Simple, with a nice upper planar ring. I like it."

The guard opened the door to the barracks proper and bid them to follow. Judge Satariel walked behind Vasya with a remarkably youthful step for someone his age. Before he disappeared through the door, he leaned back and waved at the desk. "Do carry on, Measure Gers." In the corner of her eye, Areldis thought she saw the receptionist sigh in relief.

From the door, the three of them immediately headed down a spiral staircase into the lower level. Areldis still didn't really understand why the Guvner chose to come to her aid like that, but she found it comforting all the same. If he hadn't stepped in and stopped the quarrel, the possibility of physical violence would have been very real indeed, and such an altercation would have given her career a fatal blow. As the reached the foot of the spiral staircase leading down to the basement, Areldis noticed immediately that this place was much better maintained than the lower levels of the prison. For one, there were about twice as many light crystals illuminating the hall, and the hall was not filled with the stench of misery. The tiled stone floor on which they walked had been thoroughly swept clean of dust. The guard stopped at the cell on the corner and tapped on the bars with the back of his armored bracer. Inside, the prisoner, who had been lying on a bench facing the far wall, stirred from his rest. Though most of his form was obscured by shadows, Areldis could tell that he was still wearing his Mercykiller uniform. The faction insignia he wore at his breast gave a dull glimmer when it came into view. To be arrested in uniform--how embarrassing, Areldis thought.

"Mikell, your faction's here to retrieve you," Vons said.

The man did not respond but walked quietly to the center of the cell and stood there. The Harmonium guard opened the cell door with his key and walked in, a pair of wrist shackles clutched in his left hand. The prisoner cooperated, sticking out his hands and waiting for the restraints. Within a few seconds it was all done, and the guard led him out of the cell, hands chained together before him. "Looks like I'm all yours now," he told Areldis, who responded by walking behind him and giving him a gentle nudge forward. "All right, all right, I'm walking."

Having fetched the prisoner, they returned to the main lobby, where Judge Satariel attached himself to the line of six standing before the receptionist's desk. Areldis eyed him incredulously, and before she left with Ahn through the front door, she told him in jocular tones, "You're quite something, aren't you, Judge? Anyway, I thank you."

Judge Satariel simply shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Rules are rules, what can you do?"

Areldis could only nod belatedly.

On the march back to the prison, very few words were exchanged between Ahn and Areldis--well, that'd only be half correct. The tall, sandy haired youth known as Ahn Mital threw many words at his escort in attempts at sparking conversation, but Areldis threw very few in return. Half of this situation was the result of the woman not knowing what to do. She didn't know whether to regard him as a prisoner or a comrade. The other half was due to the fact that Areldis found Ahn to be mildly irritating and somewhat repulsive. True, the young man was a looker; a single gaze from his handsome mug would have made many hearts beat harder. However, that quality also made him a romantic sycophant. He would drop lines praising his escort's appearance, or he would try to engage her in playful banter. Areldis did not take well to his and just wished that he would shut up, giving him an extra-forceful shove every now and then to communicate that point. Though she didn't hate Ahn, he was the kind of person whom she didn't want to be sitting next to for more than five minutes. Of little was said, Areldis tried her best to remain civil. She politely answered some of his legitimate questions, like those concerning her recruitment and her job, and she more or less completely ignored the rest. All the while, the man babbled on about himself, probably revealing more about himself than Areldis wanted to know.

Dropping Ahn off at the prison was an extremely simple matter, since the faction had been expecting him for quite some time. As two burly guards grabbed the man's arms and dragged him away, Areldis felt relieved. Then, suddenly realizing that she had to report back to her boss but had no idea where to find her, Alredis hurried to the front desk to ask for information. She expected to find the woman from earlier, but the one who greeted her was the tiefling mage recruit, his white hair still faintly streaked black with ink. He wore a simple black robe of decidedly finer material than Areldis's. Where Areldis's brown smock was heavy and tightly woven, the tiefling's appeared airy and light. The black made the paleness of his irises and skin stand out in sharp contrast. "You," they both said in unison.

"Areldis, right?"

"Yes. I don't think I ever caught your name, though."

"Interrogator Roga Fel, and don't you dare make fun. I'm filling in for Miss Lin at the moment. She's out for dinner."

"So what's an interrogator doing as a receptionist?"

"My exam indicated that I am suited for clerical work. And interrogator, you say? More like 'get this down for me, will ya, kid?' At least I'm fortunate enough to be paid well."

They both laughed off any ill ease they started with. For the two recruits, relating their initial experiences and frustrations to each other as peers mitigated much of the tension accumulated throughout the day. Areldis told Roga of her misadventure at the city Barracks, and Roga complained about how his superiors treated him as little more than a fresh pen. They were having such an easy time laughing off their frustrations that Areldis nearly forgot her original query. Not that she needed to remember it, for Thana soon appeared from around the corner clapping and beaming a grin of disturbing proportions.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, but I swear, Areldis, at this rate you'll be having tea with Hashkar by month's end! To think, to have been aided by Esemeli Satariel on your first day with the faction. The multiverse must look upon your existence favorably. Here's a five-stinger advance on your salary."

Startled by her boss's attitude shift, Areldis immediately thought, Morwes must have gotten to her. It was the only explanation that made sense to her. She accepted the money without saying a word.

"I readily admit that I'm thoroughly pleased with your work for today. Bringing Enforcer Mital back personally exceeded the parameters of operation for your assignment, but I'm glad you did it all the same. Enjoy yourself tonight." After saying that, she turned and headed for the front door.

"Will you be joining us at the Last Dance tonight?" asked Areldis.

"Nah, I'm going to take it easy tonight. Don't feel like babysitting a bunch of snot-nosed kids. Not tonight." She started laughing while continuing to walk away.

The recruit mentally kicked herself for not seeing that coming. "What about you, Roga?"

"I'll be there as soon as the receptionist returns. You can go on without me."

They shook hands and thanked each other before parting.

-

Due to its unique geography, the standard prime cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west made little sense in Sigil. The city was a strip located on the inside of a torus hovering atop an infinite spire. Cagers, ever so inventive and assured of their superior place in the multiverse, had long chosen to abandon the prime terminology in favor of a uniquely Sigilian paradigm. The four cardinal directions became spire-up, spire-down, clockwise, and counterclockwise, usually shortened to up, down, clock, and counter in common speech. These could be combined to form clock-up, clock-down, counter-up, and counter-down to describe intermediate orientations. This system was quite intuitive and quite easy to apply due to an interesting side effect of Sigil's location. The upper edge of Sigil faced the infinite sky of the Outlands, while its lower edge looked down to the Outlands itself. Consequently, the spire-down side of Sigil's sky always appeared darker than the spire-up. With good directions, few ever found themselves lost in Sigil.

All this would have been fine and good for Areldis were it not for one glaring problem: it was nighttime. By now, the sky had become almost completely black, and the torches, lanterns, and light crystals shining in the streets interfered with the visual faculties in such a way as to make discerning between pitch black and very dark gray just about impossible. Areldis tried to recall which side of the prison was spire-down and arrived at a general arc of possibility. She walked in the opposite direction, and it took her some searching before she finally found it. A wooden board with letters of iron hammered into it hung from a post, illuminated by a light crystal. The iron glistened in the yellow light, as it was coated with a layer of grease to ward off rust.

The Last Dance was a sturdily constructed two-story stone tavern wedged between two larger administrative buildings. During the daytime, those buildings were all abuzz with clerks of numerous factions scrambling to keep up with the paperwork involved in Sigil's day-to-day administration. At night, the tavern sandwiched in the middle became the center of things, filled with Mercykillers fresh off the job and seeking a place to unwind. The Last Dance proved that even the Mercykillers were people, after all.

When Areldis arrived, the new recruits were gathered around a large table at the center of the barroom floor. At the bar, Morwes Tallhammer sat sharing drinks with Jeireul Edali and Ranth Fersi, while the bartender stood there polishing mugs. Of the bunch, Justice Fersi looked particularly satisfied, as he was sitting hand-in-hand with a rather lovely young woman. From time to time Ranth seemed completely lost in her enchanting green eyes. Areldis grabbed a stool and seated herself next to Jeireul on the far end of the bar.

"Ah, Areldis, you finally made it! Ranth and Jeireul have been telling me so much about you," Morwes said. It was the first time that Morwes called Areldis by her name.

"I am honored that you think so highly of me."

"'Tis only natural to respect talent," Justice Fersi said before taking a hearty swig from his mug.

Jeireul leaned close to Areldis's ear and whispered, "The ring was indeed jarked, by the way."

"You mean--why didn't you--"

"You really think it woulda been wise? You know how she is."

"Good point."

"If you could kind enough to take some time to help me out now and then, I would greatly appreciate it. I'll be sure to pay you."

"If that slave driver gives me free time, then yes, I would be glad to."

With this, Jeireul's face lit up with a huge smile. He pushed back his chair, stood up, and said, "Well, I think I'll be turning in for the night, friends."

"So soon?" Morwes asked.

"Yep, right now I'm a little too tired to celebrate into the wee hours of the morn'. I'll see all of you later."

After Jeireul had departed, Areldis took his seat, moving closer to Morwes and Ranth. Talk shifted to the day's events, and it wasn't long before the two Justices started asking Areldis about her first day in the faction. Of course, she entertained them with a lively account of what happened at the City Barracks. By the end, both Ranth and Morwes had been sent into laughter, and the ordinarily dour bartender had to stifle a guffaw. She laughed with them as well, for in retrospect the whole thing did indeed seem to be a bureaucratic farce. It was something to which Mercykillers could relate, and Ranth and Morwes soon began to share their experiences of their bureaucratic scruples, resulting in even more laughter. During one of these peals of laughter, Areldis saw Morwes's brother Morthus emerge from the front door. The large man looked at the bar and approached for a few steps, but he suddenly averted his eyes and headed to the corner of the room adjacent to the front window. There he just sat alone with his arms folded across a table, his eyes closed as if in contemplation.

Morwes saw him too, and he quickly surmised that his brother was keeping away because of lingering guilt about the spectacle he caused last night. In particular, Morwes figured that his brother probably felt uncomfortable approaching the new namer.

He needed to get the woman away. "Areldis," he said, "why don't you go pay the other namers a visit? You aren't an officer yet."

Understanding perfectly, she nodded and rose from her seat. The barkeep asked, "Would you like a drink to carry over there?"

She shook her head, saying, "No, I don't touch the stuff. Water will do fine. I haven't eaten either, so food--and a good amount of it--would help."

The barkeep took a clear, unmarked bottle from the shelf and handed it to her. The bottle's cork was only in halfway, indicating that the bottle had been opened even though its contents were nearly full. The barkeep then told her to wait for about half an hour for the stew to be ready. As the barkeep disappeared into the kitchen, Areldis walked to where the other recruits were enjoying themselves. After a round of customary introductions, she took a seat and went with the herd. They talked about nothing of significance. There was the usual small talk about the day, which alienated Areldis from the start, as she wasn't a prison guard like everyone else. There was also some playful boasting and jesting, some of it humorous but most of it not. Some of those sufficiently buzzed from the alcohol began to expound on justice in half-baked philosophical debates. None of these really held Areldis's interest, for she was looking past the group of recruits to Morthus.

About a quarter hour after Areldis had left Morwes's company, Morthus finally stirred from his isolation and seated himself next to his brother. They talked for a bit, and about a minute later, Justice Fersi politely excused himself. The two brothers just sat there, talking quietly. Areldis couldn't discern their words over the din of her table, but she knew that the discussion was fairly serious. She gave up on trying to overhear their conversation and did her best to enjoy her company, which received a significant boost in quality when Roga finally arrived a short while later. When the party finally wound down around anti-peak, everyone was still sober enough to carry themselves home on their own two feet. The Tallhammer brothers had left together hours ago in dour spirits. Unlike other bars, the Last Dance usually cleared out before one past anti-peak, as the vast majority of its patrons had to rise early for work the next day. Areldis bid farewell to her comrades and walked home alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 4

The five bowls of meat stew in her stomach helped Areldis fall into a deep slumber, though once asleep, the nightly struggle with her memories began anew. The past eroded despite her best attempts to retain it. Like every other morning, she awoke frustrated and mentally exhausted. It was as if her mind was losing itself in a thick fog. She could still remember names, places, and dates, but the associated images faded from her mind. She didn't know why this amnesia afflicted her visual recollections, and she wondered how long it would be until the other components of her memory would begin to fade. Already, she could no longer recall the faces of her family. In a desperate effort to salvage any sort of victory from her deteriorating condition, she snatched up the rusty blade that had served her so well in the Hive and began to dig into her table, carving into it the names of the past. There was Psiros, her sylvan elf father. He had been a renowned traveler and journalist, and his extensive writings on the outer planes spanned entire shelves. They were a treasure trove of knowledge for a young, developing mind. One thing that she never understood about the man was that whenever the city of Sigil was mentioned, he would usually try to skirt around and divert the flow of the conversation. Had something happened here that he was not particularly fond of?

Her mother, Gavirn, was always a bit of an enigma to Areldis. She had served as a commander in the Blood War for who knows how long before she followed her father out of the Abyss and stuck to him like glue ever since. In the culmination of a most bizarre and largely nonexistent courtship, her mother used magic to disguise herself as Psiros's elven fiancée, a woman from his tribe that had been betrothed to him since childhood. Indeed, she had a weird sense of humor. The wedding proceeded as planned, and the couple lived together as husband and wife for four months before Psiros finally discovered that his real fiancée had been locked away in a pocket dimension. However, in those four months Psiros's heart had been decisively swayed, and he chose to stay in his existing marriage, leaving an indignant former bride and considerable bad blood flowing. For obvious reasons, they were forced to move away to a more isolated spot in the woods. Areldis remembered her mother as having ideas about everything. She remembered Gavirn as a kind and considerate mother, and although she could no longer recall her face, she was somehow sure that her mother was very beautiful.

The last name she scrawled down was that of Talice, the half-drow daughter of one of Psiros's distant and deceased relations. She adopted by Psiros, and she and Areldis spent a childhood together as playmates and sisters. She never knew much at all about Talice's past, but that hardly mattered among children. Talice was about twenty years older than Areldis, but the fact that Areldis matured so much faster than the elf ensured their compatibility as playmates. When Areldis finally left home, she actually felt like the older sister.

She surveyed her work. The cuts were jagged and rough, but just seeing the names of those dear to her warmed Areldis and helped ease the fears and doubts with which she awoke. Overall, her life was definitely looking good. Just a week ago, she was thrashing drunks for coin. She had built up a bit of a reputation for being a cutthroat basher during her many months in the Hive. She didn't live off fighting, but she nonetheless had no qualms about relieving those who annoyed her sufficiently of their money. She picked the fights she could win, and against those who picked fights with her, she always gave out more than she received. Though the majority of Hivers did have some sort of combat skill, the overall level of combat readiness, due to various factors such as disease and starvation, was poor. Discounting a few professional assassins and faction guards, the Hive's population fought with knives, fists, and the occasional piece of concrete rubble. For the most part, they were easy pickings for those with her level of training. Food was another concern, however, and it was always in short supply, even for those with money. Most Hivers, when given a choice between a good meal and a sum of money worth twice as much, would take the meal hands down. They knew all too well that money couldn't buy what doesn't exist. Areldis found herself wandering from almshouse to almshouse, living off handouts. The thin, starchy gruels they served kept her going, though such inadequate food did have deleterious effects on her health. She felt weaker than when she arrived.

At night, brawls with broken bottles were common, and every morning there was some fool lying dead or horribly maimed near some Hive bar. It always amazed her how the Hive's money exchanges revolved around booze and prostitution, and she felt glad to have avoided both. She didn't know exactly why, but throughout her life she absolutely hated the feeling of not being in control. It went far beyond a simple independent spirit; Areldis felt an urge to extend her will and to mold her environment as she saw fit. Even though the Mercykillers mandated obedience to authority, she was still first and foremost in it for herself. She knew that even though the Hive wasn't killing her, it would catch up to her eventually. Her slip-ups had already cost her most of her belongings; how much longer would it have been before those slip-ups turned fatal? She couldn't wander around the Hive based on the hope of stumbling upon a portal home. She had to get away, and a position in a faction in the Lady's Ward seemed like a sure bet. Coming from the Hive, well, she knew that she would have to impress. During the past couple of days, she had intentionally played up her hand in front of the faction in order to attract its attention, and by all accounts the plan was a success. Within one day's time, she had Morwes Tallhammer and Melrasat Eran on her side, and she was already on friendly terms with Jeireul Edali, a boy who appeared to be a rising star in the faction's ranks. Even if those connections fell through, at the very least it was a decent job that allowed her live and to eat without resorting to banditry. With a faint smile, she left her kip for another day of work.

Thus began the pattern of her daily life. She rose every day at five or six before peak and made her way to the prison, where she would have breakfast. She usually ate heavily, surprising others in the faction mess as she cleaned plate after plate. Her usual company consisted of Roga and Jeireul, both of whom tended to report in early as well. Occasionally, the Brothers Tallhammer would show up. Morthus always avoided Areldis, and all Morwes could do in such a situation was to greet her politely before joining his younger brother at a table on the other side of the room. After eating, Areldis would usually hang around the prison for some time doing nothing in particular. When Morwes was present, she would talk to him after his brother left for his post. She didn't dare ask about Morthus, as it was pretty clear that the younger man was a touchy subject. For these morning chats with Morwes, nothing too exciting was ever discussed. Usually, the conversation was confined to business relevant to the faction--mostly the who's who and the what's what. The tones of these discussions dripped with a sense of familiarity. However, Areldis felt that the man was actively maintaining a professional distance, which, given his position was entirely understandable. Still, they were getting along reasonably well, and she figured that it would not be too long before she would come to regard him as a friend. By the end of the first week, the two of them had established communication on a first-name basis, though Areldis still addressed him as 'Sir' or 'Justice' in the presence of other faction members.

Probably because of his youth and lower rank, Jeireul put up no such barriers. For that reason, Areldis found herself spending many of her before-duty hours in the supply office, aiding him when necessary--not that her help was required. The section, though thoroughly depleted from the Harmonium purge, was slowly being re-staffed. After only a week, Jeireul had five factioneers employed under him, one of whom was a Justice Sorat who used to be the boy's direct superior. She had been arrested under suspicion of black marketeering but was released on grounds of insufficient evidence. However, she had been thoroughly demoted for negligence of duty, and it was pretty clear that she was not overjoyed to be working under Jeireul. The others had been transferred from other sections. It took a while for them to adjust, but the supply office was regaining an appearance of normalcy. Shipments of food, ammunition, and other crucial supplies began to flow regularly once again.

It was at the end of the first week that Areldis finally received her faction-issue leather armor, which had come as part of a package of orders from a local armorer. The suit was black with a tinge of green and was the base minimum of functionality, lacking even the obligatory faction symbol. Along with the leather cuirass, which thankfully didn't give serious attention to the female form like some of its more ornate counterparts, Areldis received a pair of steel-reinforced leather gauntlets, a pair of leather cuisses, and a pair of bladed steel pauldrons emblazoned with faction insignia. She was also offered a faction helmet of the Sigilian design, with all its typical horned and bladed protrusions, but she refused. Instead, upon special request, she got Jeireul to issue her a black steel helm with a downward sloping neckguard and cheek protectors large enough to completely cover her jowls. It was a helmet that saw frequent use among Mercykillers in Acheron, where the constant threat of war made Vorkehan and its staff adopt a very militaristic doctrine. A bright yellow-green faction symbol was stenciled on left, right above the ear. The right was blank, since, as she learned from Jeireul, it was a spot reserved for unit insignia. It was not that she needed to wear a helmet all the time; in fact, it ended up spending most of its time gathering dust under her bed. She just felt that if she ever had to wear one, it might as well be more functional than decorative. For that matter, she also discarded her pauldrons. Not only were they dead weight upon her shoulders, but they also prevented her from wearing her robe over her armor. The robe proved to be one of the most useful things in Areldis's daily treks across the Cage, as it was thick enough to ward off the occasional shower of Sigilian sludge-rain.

Her job started at three before peak, and as always, her boss was the slavedriver. For the most part, her deliveries were confined to locations in the Lady's Ward, though occasionally she had to go as far as the Hall of Records in the Clerk's Ward. Her sole mode of transportation was her own two feet, since Sigil was a city where sedan chairs outnumbered horses by a factor of at least ten to one. It took a few hours of jogging and brisk walking to make it to that ward, provided that one could get past the traffic in the Market Ward, which was a bustling throng of activity every day. Sigil had no means of food or mineral production and was completely dependent upon imports. The trade was fierce but potentially very lucrative. The majority of the shops were no more than stalls and booths haphazardly thrown together. These seldom lasted, but numerous examples of successful stores and restaurants like Akin's and Imel's gave these entrepreneurs a constant source of hope.

The building she frequented the most was very obviously the City Courthouse, operated by the Fraternity of Order. Of all the factions, the Guvners were the ones closest to the Red Death, since it was they who sent criminals to prison in the first place. They did not, however, deliver sentences. Sigil's court system was unique in that it divorced sentencing from the trial process. Therefore, it was critical that the court and the prison maintain a roughly concurrent interpretation of the law, and such discussions constituted the bulk of the communication between these two factions.

Being such a regular visitor to the courthouse, it was only a matter of time before she met up again with Judge Satariel. In the fourth week of Retributus, three days before the end of the month, Areldis was resting herself on one of the courthouse façade's pillars after a midday delivery when people began to flow out of the Grand Court. A trial had just ended. She sat down with her back against the pillar and watched half a dozen Mercykiller enforcers lead the convict down the steps. A crowd of jeering spectators had gathered around him, but all made sure to give the Mercykillers a respectable berth. One black haired human boy of about twelve or thirteen years got too close was given a forceful shove that sent him tumbling to the base of the stairs. As he struggled to get up, droplets of blood from a noticeable gash near his right temple dripped down on the lower steps, marring the fine white marble. The Mercykillers paid him no heed as they stepped over him and proceeded down the street towards the prison. The crowd soon dispersed, leaving the kid sitting at the base of the steps, his hand pressed against his temple. A trickle of blood ran down his face and neck. From the top, Areldis was watching, and she was becoming irritated. Though it wasn't intentional on the kid's part, the fact that he was bleeding so conspicuously in Areldis's sight made her think that he was flaunting his wound. Thus annoyed, she walked down and stood over him. When the boy turned his head, the initial shock sent him scrambling back a few feet. Unfazed, Areldis calmly fished around in her sack and produced a handkerchief; she tossed it in the boy's face. "Use this," she told him in a somewhat bored tone.

He hesitated for a moment before balling up the white cloth and pressing it against the side of his head. He thanked her, but she only returned an expressionless nod. In her opinion, the kid largely deserved what he got, since he should've known better not to heckle prisoners in front of the courthouse--in the presence of the Red Death, no less. Still, she couldn't bear the sight of someone making a public spectacle of himself. As she stood motionlessly over the boy, she heard someone approaching from behind.

"Areldis, isn't it?" Judge Esemeli Satariel, still dressed in his maroon robes of court, greeted her. "That was a stickler of a case, I must say. I thought I was never getting out of there."

She turned around and folded her arms under her breasts. "But you gave a decision, obviously."

"Yes, I guess I did, didn't I. Do you follow these cases, by any chance?"

She had to think for a moment before replying. What she wanted to say was that reading about Sigil's court cases was one of the most frustrating and boring things this side of the Gray Waste. However, conversational tact required another option. "I do what I must for the sake of my faction. Judge. You know that we Mercykillers do not concern ourselves with the procedures of court," she answered, forcing a small smile.

"Oh, I disagree. One should mind everything. If you ever want to get ahead in this city, such knowledge is useful. I myself take a keen interest in the politics of both the Red Death and the Harmonium." Areldis did not reply, so Judge Satariel continued with a smirk, "Well, you'll realize that sooner or later. So, how have things been for you?"

"The boss is a slave driver, but what's new? Anyway, sir, I am honored to be worthy of your attention. I'm just a messenger, as you can see." However proud and confident Areldis was of herself, she had enough sense to exercise restraint.

"Ah, bar that, girl. I hear that Old Melrasat has big plans for you."

"You heard?" she asked, intrigued and somewhat alarmed at the same time.

"Very little happens in this Triad without my knowledge."

Areldis shrugged. "What can I say?"

"I'd better not keep you too long. You are, after all, on duty."

Giving a single nod and then saluting, the Mercykiller prepared to leave. The boy's wound had by now clotted sufficiently, so he cautiously stood up and tried to return the bloodied handkerchief. Areldis wouldn't take it. "Keep it," she told him brusquely, and then she left.

Areldis's work schedule was very tight--so tight, in fact, that she had no time for lunch. Whatever she had at breakfast was to carry her throughout the day, and whatever food she lacked she made up for at dinner. Occasionally, using the odd jinx she got for helping Jeireul, she bought Arcadian apples to take with her in the morning. Arcadian apples were some of the finest apples she had ever tasted, for they were not too sweet, nor too sour, nor too starchy. Being partial to apples already, she quickly developed a fetish for this planar fruit.

Her job usually ended somewhere around five past, though depending on the situation and her boss's mood, it could end anywhere from four to seven. There were a few other couriers working for Thana, but Areldis almost never saw them, since most of a courier's day was spent away from the City Prison. For that reason, she hardly knew anything about her coworkers. When there was nothing to deliver, Areldis became the faction's "get me" girl, who scurried from office to office, fetching trivial paperwork and mundane intrafaction correspondence. There was never an idle moment. Still, she sensed that her boss was warming up to her. Thana displayed a certain pride as she sent her newest subordinate on her daily rounds. Of all the couriers, Areldis was apparently the one who performed her duties the most efficiently. Every few days, she cut Areldis's workday short so that the new recruit could attend afternoon training sessions in the prison. For the next six months, these recruits were technically trainees as they learned the ropes of their new profession both on and off the job. Required for all new members was a course in lie detection, where they were taught to be mindful of any tones of speech, body language, or nervous twitches that could convey deceit. It was said that just by joining the Mercykiller faction, one became more perceptive towards those things, but Areldis felt no different than before. She wondered if the effect was partially psychosomatic.

Aside from that, she also signed herself up for sparring sessions with the faction's combat trainer, Justice Fersi. While she had received a good amount of melee training from her father, Justice Fersi made it clear that she still had a lot to learn. It was here that she first began to train in earnest with the halberd and the spear, weapons not of the duel but of the battlefield. Her movements were unrefined and somewhat brutish, and she relied heavily on her naturally superior strength and reflexes. Ranth, with many years of experience behind him, almost invariably defeated her in mock duels, though she did present a greater challenge than any of the other recruits, with the exception of perhaps Morthus Tallhammer. The huge man was powerful and remarkably dexterous, excelling in the hand-to-hand grappling techniques often used to subdue unruly prisoners. When both he and Areldis were present in the training area, Morthus as usual took care to avoid her. This pattern of avoidance was becoming so painfully obvious that just about everyone began to take notice. To his credit, Justice Fersi did not push the matter.

After her day ended at the prison, she usually headed straight home, though not without a stop at Morwes's kip. The officer became more personable outside the Prison's walls, though he was still a bit restrained by the presence of his brother, who was usually there as well. It was no coincidence that the brothers' work hours coincided. However, on the evening of the day when she met Eselmeli Satariel, Morthus was kept late at the prison, giving Areldis an opportunity to speak with Morwes alone. She and Morwes had known each other for almost two weeks now, and she felt that they knew each other well enough to discuss the topic on everyone's mind: Morthus. "Say, your brother doesn't like me very much, does he?" she asked him bluntly.

The young man rubbed his left eye with his palm and sighed. "You really must understand his situation. Ever since I joined this faction ten years ago, he's been wanting to do the same. He's been training and preparing to enter the faction for the past five years, and he thinks himself to be a star of the faction. Not only him, but most of us expected him to be the best recruit we've had in years. That is, until you arrived. You stole his thunder, so to speak. It's only natural that he feels a little resentment; he's only nineteen and still has much maturing ahead of him." Maturing indeed, Morwes thought, remembering that night at the bar. Not being much of a drinker himself, he was never able to properly gauge his brother's tolerance for alcohol. It gave him a headache just thinking about it.

"But if you joined the faction ten years ago, you must have been what, fifteen?" He looks so young, Areldis thought.

"Precisely. Normally, there is a minimum age requirement of eighteen for humans, but they made an exception in my case. Since my parents were both dead, I had no means of support. Furthermore, I had to take my brother on as a dependent. Therefore, I was allowed to join the faction early. It is certainly a better alternative than to turn potential recruits out onto the streets."

"You're a good brother, Morwes."

"Sometimes I wonder." He didn't mean to say it out loud, but that was truly how he felt about the matter. Morthus was by no means stupid, but he was always very impressionable. He wondered how much his brother's desire to join the Mercykillers was merely a shadow of his own. What if Morthus's will had been completely submerged due to his presence?

Noting the ambivalence and realizing that things could get messy if she delved further, Areldis replied, "I'll be going now, Morwes, and I thank you for all your help. I will not do anything to come between you and your brother."

After she went home that night, she spent a couple of hours reading the law books she had borrowed from Morwes. She set aside a little time every night for her studies. Unfortunately, this night she was distracted. Despite her promise, she knew that her success would likely come at the expense of her rivals. Her elevation could mean others' diminishment, and any station she gained would be the denial of opportunity for others. There was simply no way around it, unless, of course, she chose to remain a messenger for the rest of her career--she'd stab herself before that would happen. Moreover, in the case of Morthus, there was the issue of loyalty at stake. At the moment Morwes was her mentor, but somewhere down the line he could be forced to choose between his responsibility to her and his responsibility to his brother. Somehow, she didn't feel that she would be the victor.

-

The very next day, she was sent to deliver a special communication to the Society of Sensation at their headquarters in the Civic Festhall. The massive 600-year-old structure of the Festhall was experiencing a new surge of activity due to the recent ascension of the new factol, a woman from the Outlands named Erin Montgomery. It was clear that she had great plans for the faction; construction was already commencing on two large outdoor amphitheatres in the front corners of the courtyard. The Festhall itself consisted of three domed structures, the main section easily a thousand feet tall and the two smaller ones about a third shorter. The entire complex occupied an area roughly equal to that of the Prison. In terms of quality of construction, the Festhall was indisputably the finest in Sigil, with building materials carefully selected from hundreds of planar locations. The front doors, nearly a hundred feet high, were surrounded with glittering stones and rare minerals, mesmerizing many a passerby. The building's great height and magnificent buttresses and supports made an imposing impression on the city's skyline, making every other faction's headquarters look like mere anthills. Areldis arrived there just before peak. She quickly weaved her way through the crowds, performers, and construction personnel who crowded the Festhall's front approaches.

The message she was to deliver this morning was addressed directly to Factol Montgomery herself, and she couldn't help but feel a bit elated. It wasn't so much that she had the opportunity to meet someone of importance; no, this delivery was a sign of the faction's trust in her, and that was the only reason why it was tolerable. Really, there was nothing that she found appealing about the Festhall. To Areldis, its luxuriance was decadence. She had never seen such an abominable collection of sophists, hedonists, and pseudo-artists. There were a few true artists among them, but they were far outnumbered by the swarms of thrill-seeking idiots and self-professed sages. Anyone with a little bit of experience and a certain flair for the dramatic could attract a small crowd, regaling them with meaningless stories of their meaningless lives. Bad poets spouted off their atrocious verse, while the more adventurous stuffed their bellies with every manner of exotic planar food and drink. All in all, Areldis felt like kicking someone's teeth in.

As she had half-expected, the factol was currently occupied. Montgomery was in the Festhall's Ren Theater, attending a new-age githyanki production that was a retelling of Gith's liberation struggle, complete with song and interpretive dance. The receptionist, a bespectacled bariaur of middle years, tried to peddle tickets at half price to Areldis, but the Mercykiller flatly declined. She was already familiar with the events of Gith's slave rebellion against the illithid and didn't need to be told again for entertainment's sake. Left with more than an hour or so before the play ended, Areldis decided to wait in the hall at the entrance of the theater.

Being the restless sort, Areldis soon started wandering about. Along the walls of this central hallway were more than a score of marble statues, each one honoring a former factol. The dozen or so empty podiums signified that work was still progressing and that this project was a rather new undertaking. This must be one of Montgomery's extravagances, Areldis told herself. As she surveyed each statue, she had to admit appreciation for the sculptors' skills. The statues were finely and realistically detailed, eschewing the stereotypically heroic poses favored by most politicians. Many of the factols were depicted in their later years, with furrowed brows, wrinkled foreheads, and intense facial expressions. It was a deliberate attempt to convey wisdom, and it worked.

One statue in particular caught Areldis's eye. It was of a tall elf with backpack and bedroll slung over his shoulder and a notebook in hand. The expression on his youthful, handsome face was serious but decidedly optimistic, brimming with energy. He looked as if he was getting ready to step off the podium. The nameplate read, "Psiros 552-560." Instantly, she realized that it was her father, even though she had forgotten what he looked like. After recovering from the initial shock, she managed to "borrow" several sheets of paper and a rod of charcoal from a random artist. She proceeded to kneel on the floor and began to sketch the statue's face. She was still at it by the time that the play had ended and people had started to exit the theater. After hastily adding some final shading, she stood up, dusted herself off, and stuck her drawings into her belt.

No sooner had she done that, she was greeted by a powerfully-built half-elf with piercing green eyes. "You have a letter for the factol, yes?" he asked in a businesslike tone. He held his hand outstretched and motioned with his index and middle fingers.

"That is correct. My instructions are to deliver this message specifically to Factol Montgomery, which means that I cannot give it to you."

The man laughed heartily and replied, "In case you didn't know, I am Cuatha Da'nanin, Erin's closest friend and advisor. Anything that goes to her goes through me."

A pair of slender arms snaked around Da'nanin's chest and waist as a woman hugged him from behind. Moments later, Erin Montgomery's comely visage popped out from behind his shoulder. "Just fork it over, won'cha?" she said, addressing the messenger directly.

Without further delay, Areldis produced the letter and put it into the half-elf's hands. The man opened it and quickly skimmed its contents before handing it to the factol. "Now that my duty is complete," Areldis said with a bow, "I shall take my leave."

"Hold!" commanded Factol Montgomery, her eyes still glued to the letter. She slowly folded it up and put it back into the envelope before stepping forward and facing the Mercykiller. "I see tha'cha like that statue," she said with a faint hint of a provincial Outlander's accent.

"I admire his books very much, if that's what you mean."

"Great, splendid. See, Cuatha, even the Mercykillers have taste."

"He was after all one of this faction's great travelers. If only he were still alive," Da'nanin mused.

Of course, Areldis was pretty certain that her father was still alive, but she didn't say anything.

"So tell me, do ya think that it's a fitting tribute to such a great man?" Montgomery asked with a grin.

Areldis was beginning to clam up. It was clear that Montgomery was playing some sort of game, though she had no idea what it was. "I'd--I'd assume so."

"See, Cuatha, the statue's stayin'," Montgomery said as her grin grew bigger.

"Yes, in the letter you delivered, your factol expressed that he wanted Psiros's statue removed on account of his suspected Anarchist ties. However, his contribution to the history of this faction cannot be denied." In contrast with the factol, Da'nanin spoke in a calm, serious tone.

"But since even the Mercykillers appreciate his legacy, then we have no choice but to leave the statue in place. I'll be sure to mention that when I give Factol Mallin my regards."

Areldis bowed politely and left, though she once out of sight she couldn't stop cursing herself.

-

She spent that evening at the Last Dance. She did not particularly like going to bars, but she found this one much more pleasant than the stale dives that infested the Hive. She came here often on her own initiative, but this time it was Morwes's invitation. When Areldis arrived, the young man was sitting at a table in the corner with Jeireul and Justicar Eran. It was the first time that she saw the old man since recruitment. She went over and sat next to Jeireul, greeting everyone politely. After exchanging some initial pleasantries, Jeireul excused himself. As Areldis observed, the kid always seemed to leave early, usually before seven past. That left Morwes, Melrasat, and Areldis at the table. Talk quickly shifted to faction business. Morwes always had a purpose when meeting her, and this time was no different.

Justicar Eran began, "Namer, the after tomorrow is the end of Retributus, and on that day, this faction has a closing ceremony in the Prison's courtyard. Most of the faction high-ups will be present, and I expect you to be there as well. Put on your best face and be on your best behavior. I expect you to look the part."

The way he said it, it sounded like a direct order. "There's something I must make certain, though," Morwes interjected. "This ceremony involves an execution, and I hope you are not one to be squeamish."

"Squeamish? Me?" Areldis replied, facetiously feigning surprise. "Only degenerates and aristocrats get squeamish."

Justicar Eran's laugh was cut short when Roga Fel appeared out of seemingly nowhere and plopped himself down in Jeireul's former seat. "I'm petty Outlands nobility myself, thank you. Sorry for being late."

"Impoverished," Morwes responded with a flourish.

"I never knew that there was human nobility in the Duke of Thunder's realm," Roga said innocently enough.

Morwes reached across the table with intent to backhand the tiefling, but he stopped halfway and laughed. "People always assume I'm from Acheron, since Lei Gong's realm of Resounding Thunder is one of this faction's primary recruiting grounds. No really, my family claims roots in some backwater eastern province of some backring sphere called Aber-Toril some 800 years ago. When they first set foot in the Outlands, my ancestors employed themselves as rock breakers in a quarry on the outskirts of Fortitude. In time and aided by fortune, we managed to accumulate enough wealth to enter the ranks of nobility. The family name--you guessed it--is a tribute to the sledgehammers our ancestors used to make their living.

"Well, the funny thing about money and possessions is that like all temporal things, they are fleeting. From poverty we rose, and to poverty we descended once more. When I came to Sigil with my brother a decade ago, all I had was my name and the clothes on my back. In a sense, I guess that's all I have to show for it now."

"That's all a man ever needs, Morwes," Justicar Eran reassured.

"Yes, yes, I know. In any case, Roga, the Justicar here feels that you have career potential, so we expect you to attend the Retributus closing ceremonies as well."

Melrasat then proceeded to run down a list of dos and don'ts, giving advice on who to look out for, where to stand, how to stand, and how to conduct oneself. The key was to stand conspicuously in the Factol's field of vision without seeming like a complete attention whore. Also, upon entering the courtyard, they needed to follow the route that would take them in front of the more important officers. In a faction as large and hierarchical as the Mercykillers, face exposure was critical in generating the recognition that could aid promotion. To Areldis's relief, not once did Melrasat mention the incident at the Civic Festhall. She hoped sincerely that the Sensate factol didn't care enough to report it in her response.

After Justicar Eran finished, he and Morwes left, leaving Roga and Areldis behind. She really didn't have much contact with the other recruits, but she often went out of her way to spend some time with this tiefling. To her, Roga was the one true peer she had. In him, she found a sympathetic ear to which she could discuss her daily frustrations. Likewise, she offered her ear to Roga. The two of them spent so much time sitting together in the Last Dance after work that the odd rumor of a relationship floated around here and there. That was most certainly not the case, at least not yet. For now, the two of them were simply content to have a good time cracking jokes and talking politics and philosophy. "...and that's when I knew I just shot myself in the foot," Areldis told Roga, relating the earlier incident with Erin Montgomery.

"Ouch. That woman's a snake. So, wait, why were you so interested in the statue of Psiros?"

Areldis wanted to tell Roga the truth, to say that the man depicted by the statue was her father, but she restrained herself. But she couldn't bring herself to abuse Roga's friendship by lying outright either. "Where I come from on the Prime, that man Psiros is a great sage. He is one of the most renowned travelers, revered among both men and elves. The tales of his travels are read far and wide--"

"Wait, wait, wait--is? He's still alive?"

Cursing herself for being so careless, Areldis thought quickly to extricate herself from her own trap. "Yes," she said, nodding slowly, "I believe so--"

Roga interrupted her, his eyes gleaming like that of a child. He grabbed Areldis's hands and spoke so quickly frantically that his tongue seemed to have difficulty keeping up. "You know what this means? One of the Planes's greatest mysteries. Everyone thought he was dead, eaten by the Abyss. You know, this means that he's technically still factol of the Sensates since he never resigned. I wonder how they're going to take that news. Oh, I still have the entire first volume of his travels sitting under my bed--"

"Shhh. Keep it down. He may be alive, but his adventuring days are over, and he just wants to live a quiet life, so I doubt that he would welcome the renewed attention. So, have a little respect. This is just between the two of us. Besides, I have no idea where how to find my home world anyway."

"Oh." For a moment, Roga looked sullen and reflective, his eyes cast down at the table. "Home, Areldis, do you miss it?"

The woman was startled by the question. The friendship between her and Roga had operated on an unspoken rule: no questions were to be asked about each other's pasts. They kept talk confined to faction matters. This question violated that rule, but Areldis could not ignore it either if she wished to preserve the bonds of trust and friendship between her and Roga. "I would be lying if I said I didn't," she told him with a sigh. "But it seems so long ago, like another life. I remember bits and pieces. The forest, the open air--things that are in short supply in this city. I barely remember who my parents were, and I think that I've come to terms with the fact that I have to make my life here."

"I remember that night when we first joined this faction. You came off the street in rags and you stank. I've seen it a hundred times before, and it's cliché in this city--the lost Prime banging around the Cage searching for a way home. Most of them are clueless and get themselves dead-booked in a week, but others live on. Their minds are shattered by starvation and disease, and they spend their days as addled beggars. I'm glad you came to the faction. I'm glad you're here, with us, with me."

Roga's words melted through her. It was the first time that someone had said that to her in Sigil. The others, her superiors, for all that they ordered her around and reprimanded her, did appreciate her, but they never voiced it. These unexpected words from a lowly recruit moved her more than anything she had experienced in Sigil to this point. Their hands linked once more across the table. "Say, Roga, why did you join the faction?"

"I'm a tanar'ling. You see, there's a number of tiefers here as Mercykillers, but they're all zulings, meaning that they're born with the sense of order that all Baatezu have. Me, I'm from the other side of the infernal family tree. I joined in order to have an environment and profession that would give discipline to my life. You don't have any idea what it's like, to spend every day fighting the very blood of chaos that runs through my veins."

The setup was too perfect. She couldn't resist playing a joke on the man. "Same blood that runs through mine," she snapped back.

"Wha—what are you--"

"Psst. Here's a secret." Areldis leaned in close and dropped her voice to a whisper. Her face bore a deathly solemn expression. "I'm half tanar'ri."

"You—you're screwing with me. You're screwing with me, aren't you?" Roga stammered.

"I'll tell you another secret. I'm half-elven." Her lips curled into a grin.

Roga took the visual cue as a sign of jest and burst out in cackling laughter that drew the stares of a large fraction of the bar's clientele. Areldis joined in laughing too, for reasons all her own.

On the day of the ceremony, Areldis walked into the prison in her suit of leather armor. She did not wear her robes over it, since she decided to put on her articulated bladed steel pauldrons--she might as well look more imposing this day. The helmet stayed home, though. She had debated wearing it the night before, but she ultimately decided against it. The thing was a helmet of Acheron, which did not give kind of impression that she wanted.

Stepping into the courtyard, she made eye contact with many of the faction's more prominent officers. They formed a special section to the left of the scaffolds. Most of them were justicars, but a few of the more senior justices, Morwes and Thana included, could be seen standing among them. Areldis walked parallel to the front of the gallows and took a spot in the first row of the crowd gathered on the right. Heeding Melrasat's advice, she positioned herself next to shorter people as to make herself stand out even more. Roga, who didn't have the advantage of height, stood next to a black haired woman as to draw a contrast with his thick mane of white hair.

Since this was a semi-public occasion, a certain number of Sigil's civilians were allowed into the courtyard. These people were confined to the section facing the front of the gallows, and they were allowed to mingle with the Mercykiller guards. Realistically, however, both groups stuck to their own. All in all, about five hundred Mercykillers and two hundred townspeople attended. Small Harmonium and Guvner delegations were also present.

At peak, Factol Mallin, a massive man dressed in formidable plate mail, stepped onto the scaffold with a halberd in hand. Areldis figured that he was approximately her height, perhaps a little shorter, but his sheer brawn was intimidating. There was no question in her mind that Mallin could easily equal Morthus Tallhammer in raw strength. When Mallin brought the end of his halberd to the wood of the scaffold, silence swept over the crowd. The factol began to speak. The speech was the usual prepared drivel about the faction's mission and its commitment to justice, but the way Mallin delivered it attested to his charisma and leadership. His voice was commanding, but not in a harsh, militaristic manner. He was surprisingly calm and dignified for someone of his brutish physique, and it was not hard to see why this levelheaded man rose to the rank of factol. Upon the speech's completion, the Mercykillers in the audience broke out in restrained applause. After only half a minute, Mallin brought forth his right hand, palm opened towards the audience. He swung his arm in a semicircle and silenced the crowd for the next act.

As Mallin stepped back into the ranks of the senior officers, the prisoner to be executed was brought to the scaffold. It was at this point that Areldis felt the blood completely drain from her body. This "prisoner" was Ahn Mikell, the same man that she had delivered from the City Barracks two weeks before. The initial shock was bad enough, but absolute horror of realizing that she had delivered a man to his death refused to stop growing. She stood there wide-eyed as Ahn stood motionlessly over the trapdoor, as the executioner placed the noose around his neck, making sure that the knot was to the side in order to ensure a clean snapping of the neck. Then the condemned began to speak. "I, Ahn Mikell, servant of justice, take these sins upon myself. Let my damnation be another's redemption." He spoke these words without expression, his body rigid and his eyes staring blankly ahead as if he were a marionette. It was all very surreal, and ten seconds later, it was all over. The doors of the prison then swung open, revealing half a dozen scraggly prisoners who immediately ran into the welcoming arms of their friends and family. The crowd began to disperse, but Areldis just stood in place, eyes fixed on the swinging body of Ahn Mital. Only after the executioner checked the victim's pulse and cut him down did she begin to walk away.

To the marrow of her bones she felt sick. There was no doubt that Ahn was an idiot, but he didn't deserve this. Worse yet, she was the one who unknowingly delivered him to his fate. She knew that someone would have retrieved him sooner or later, but the fact that she was the one who did it festered like an open sore in her mind. She trudged through the rest of the day as best she could, though she could not, no matter how hard she tried, forget the blank expression Ahn wore just seconds before his death.

After work, she found Morwes waiting for her in the Prison's main lobby. They acknowledged each other's presence and walked out without saying a word. They walked together in the direction of their kips, and only when they were about halfway there did they speak. "You never told me, Sir."

"You did not inquire."

"Don't give me that."

"Well, let's say that I did inform you of the situation. Just imagine that I did tell you of Mikell's execution. Not only that, since further explanation would be the necessary consequence of this action. In addition, I would have also had to say that the whole ceremony is a sham in which one of our least valuable comrades is purged in order to justify the release of prisoners whose convictions were already completely untenable. Now, imagine that for a moment and answer me. Would you have attended?"

"I-I'm not sure."

They didn't say anything for the rest of the walk. After parting ways at the Tallhammers' kip, Areldis continued down the road to hers. When she arrived, however, she felt no inclination to stop walking.

-

Several hours later, her wandering took her to the gates of Little Arcadia, an enclave of the ordered upper planar paradise in the Guildhall Ward of Sigil. It was a walled town within the city that served to house many of the Harmonium's members. Armed Harmonium officers were always patrolling the neighboring streets in force, and they wouldn't take kindly to even a Mercykiller loitering about. It was said that any tiefling who entered Little Arcadia's walls disappeared without a trace. The Harmonium weren't noted for tolerance.

As she began walking back, a man's voice from a rooftop startled her. "Eh, Mercykiller, come to watch the fight?"

She looked up and immediately recognized the speaker as Judge Esemeli Satariel. Her infravision compensated for the dim illumination of the streetlights. "Fancy meeting you here, Judge," she replied, trying to sound as "normal" as possible.

"Come on up and grab a seat, girl."

Using the ladder that had the Judge had propped up against the roof, she climbed up and sat down next to him. The tiles of the roof were cold, but they offered enough friction to keep them from slipping off. The roof was also relatively clean, free of the scum that came with rain. Apparently this area was cleaned by the dabus, strange humanoid servants of the Lady of Pain who floated about and spoke in images, not words. They were most often seen in the more affluent wards after rainstorms, when they went out in force into the streets with their mops. "Now, what's this fight all about, Judge?" Areldis asked.

"Even celestials have their arguments, and whenever two featherheads from Little Arcadia have a disagreement, they take it up as a challenge of non-lethal combat. It's almost a nightly occurrence here. There, it's starting."

Several blocks away, an archon and a deva squared off over the rooftops of Little Arcadia. Neither was armed, and both were illuminated by their own light spells. The fight was not so much a fight as a contest of aerial acrobatics, as each winged combatant struggled to maneuver into advantageous positions from which to force his opponent to the ground. Every once in a while, a forceful bump would send one of them tumbling towards the ground, but the victim usually managed to recover before impact.

As Areldis watched these radiant beings, she felt a tickling in the back of her head. She cursed and suppressed it. Even her own body--her own mind--was betraying her. She was the daughter of a tanar'ri, born with the name a celestial. But she wasn't about to surrender--not now, not ever.

In the distance, the deva sustained a critical blow while in low flight. After he crashed back first into a rooftop, the archon flew down and helped his opponent back onto his feet. They shook hands and then separated, disappearing into the streets of Little Arcadia.

"I'd imagine that this was more entertaining than your day," Judge Satariel quipped.

For the second time that day, Areldis felt the blood drain from her body. "You knew, didn't you? You knew back at the Barracks."

"There's very little that happens in the Triad--"

"Without your knowledge, I know," Areldis completed.

"But what can you do?" Satariel said while shrugging.

"He was a real berk, but he didn't deserve it."

"It's a very sad story, really. The guy they were planning to execute was a stag turner, a real scoundrel. Unfortunately, he died in the torture chamber at the start of the month, so a replacement had to be procured on short notice. Mital's indiscretions have always been an occasional source of embarrassment for your faction, and he picked a hell of a time to get arrested, I'll tell you that. If only someone had spoken up for him--someone of importance, in any case."

"Couldn't you Guvners have saved him by insisting on a trial?" A trace of anger infected Areldis's voice.

"Yes, but he didn't know us. To make it in this city, the two things you need most are information and connections. When you get down to it, it's all politics. No one is going to save you unless you give him a damn good reason to."

"Then do I count as knowing you?"

"You intrigue me, so I guess I'll be watching." Then, trying to break the somber mood, he added, "No, not that way. I'm a married man."

Areldis decided that she had already had enough for one day, so excused herself and headed home. She was still disturbed, but for different reasons. Gone was Ahn Mital's face, replaced with thoughts of acquiring information and connections.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 5

The next month, Narciss, passed without much of a fuss. It was the Signers' month, but the Signers' idea of being out in force consisted of locking themselves in their homes and concentrating really hard, hoping to change some aspect of their surroundings through sheer force of will. For the most part, such efforts failed miserably or were so insignificant as to not make anyone care. For the Mercykiller faction, however, there was no reprieve. From the very first day, preparations were underway for the general lawlessness of the following month, Tithing. Tithing was the month of the Fated, also known as the Takers, since that faction served in the dubious role of Sigil's tax collection agency. The Fated's form of celebrating was setting a material goal and acquiring it through whatever means necessary. If that weren't troubling enough, this mentality tended to bleed off into the masses of the city. People became more competitive, store prices rose, and all sorts of athletic and mental contests popped up everywhere. The gambling houses made a fortune. One would think that the Lady of Pain would put a stop to such disorder in her city, but for some reason she usually stayed out of it, letting the mortals scurry about and do her dirty work.

All the factions of law, in fact, were preparing for the worst. The Fraternity of Order began converting buildings adjacent to their headquarters into makeshift courthouses, and the Harmonium began expanding their ranks with personnel temporarily transferred from other planar locations. Just how many more Harmonium troopers flooded in was strictly classified information, but common estimates generally agreed that it was more than a thousand. In addition, the patrols now tended to show up in heavier armor, trading in the usual leather and chain mail for heavy shields and plate. The switch to steel plate limited the duration of such patrols due to fatigue, but that was easily offset by the faction's increased numbers.

Similarly, the Mercykiller faction swelled in terms of men and materiel. Massive quantities of weapons, ammunition, and food filled the faction stores. Thanks to a number of treaties that the faction had struck with the baatezu, small shipments of green steel weapons also arrived. These were essential for maintaining order among Sigil's fiendish residents, who were for the most part resistant to weapons of normal steel. Armor was seeing more frequent use, and even Areldis at Jeireul's urging started to wear a shirt of brigandine to work every day. Since Areldis didn't have the money to actually buy the thing, Jeireul simply let her "borrow" it from the faction stores for free. The armor was light and well padded so that it made very little noise when walking. Also, since it was designed to be concealed, it fit better under robes than Areldis's old cuirass of hardened leather. In addition, she also began wearing her helmet, though at first she found it incredibly uncomfortable with the disheveled vermilion mane that she had grown in her tenure in the Hive. The solution was simple for her--she got it trimmed down to no more than two to three inches in length. Being so coarse, her hairs tended to stand up like spines on her scalp, but they matted down well enough when pressed by the helmet.

As for the new arrivals, they mostly came from Acheron, either from Resounding Thunder or from Vorkehan, the Mercykiller faction's official headquarters. A few trickled in from the Outlands as well, though the Mercykillers of Heart of Justice in Bytopia did not report in at all. It was just as well too. Though many of the Bytopians were hardened veterans of the Blood War, they generally displayed a fanatical intolerance of anyone who didn't share their goals. Their main goal, of course, was to vanquish all injustice and wrongdoing through glorious battle. They worshipped Kiri-Jolith, a god of Justice formerly based off the prime who now resided in Bytopia. He readily bestowed his blessings unto his followers for performing good deeds, and his armies were greatly feared throughout the planes. To Kiri-Jolith's followers, anything that they perceived to be evil was a blight upon the multiverse and deserved to be cleansed from existence. Heart of Justice was a realm where fiends and tieflings were killed outright; at least in Little Arcadia the Harmonium had the courtesy to be discreet about it. For this reason, the Bytopians didn't get along too well with the rest of the faction, particularly those from Acheron. Traditionally, Sigil and Vorkehan just wrote Heart of Justice off and let it alone.

Still, the absence of the Bytopian contingent didn't mean that the rest of the Mercykillers had no teeth. On the 25th of Narciss, a battalion of Acheronian shock troops, clad in the dark olive green steel of the Red Death's elite forces, arrived. No matter how the Harmonium could denigrate the Mercykillers' training methods, even they had to admit that these soldiers were some of the best. Acheron was the plane of warfare, and the only reason for the continued existence of Vorkehan has been the Mercykiller command's tactical ingenuity and the individual trooper's indefatigable tenacity. In an average year, no less than ten large-scale battles were fought with the various opposing armies of Acheron.

The battalion was composed of three battle companies of 140 each and a support company of magic users and healers. Together with command staff, the total strength of the unit numbered a little over 500. These were the best Acheron had to offer, and the faction spared no expense in equipping them. They all wore a green steel lamellar vest over a finely woven mail shirt, which was also fashioned from the same material. In fact, every piece of armor they wore--pauldrons, cuisses, greaves, armguards, and all--was made of high quality green steel. The armor was exceedingly durable and light and was truly a godsend for soldiers on the march. As for weapons, the standard foot trooper carried the typical spears, swords, and shields, all fashioned from superior green steel. There was also a small contingent of archers trained in the use of the repeating glasteel crossbow, a somewhat uncommon but deadly effective weapon that had seen extensive action in the battles of the Blood War.

At the head of this elite unit was a young commander from Resounding Thunder named Li Shanlin. From what Areldis saw, she spoke very little and kept to herself. In fact, the same could be said for nearly all of the new arrivals from Acheron. They were here to do their job and then leave; they were not here to fraternize. As for the rest of the faction, preparations for Tithing were already reaching a fever pitch. Day after day, Morwes spent extra hours at the prison helping Justice Fersi train recruits. In logistics, Jeireul was finally promoted to Justice and officially took charge of the whole operation. Over the past month, he had slowly gathered around him a group of reliable subordinates. Most of them were transfers from Outlands stations, people disconnected from Sigilian concerns. A few, just recently cleared of all charges from the black market debacle, were also reinstated, though at a significantly lower position in the pecking order. Jeireul did his best to accommodate them, though there were awkward moments. As for Roga, he spent his time in the records room, poring over old court records in an attempt to identify potential troublemakers beforehand. For the courier service, the volume of communication nearly doubled. In order to handle this increased workload, temps were assigned, though the truly important letters were handled by those Thana trusted. Areldis could count herself in this select group, so she got to deliver many letters to both the Harmonium and the Fraternity of order concerning the coordination of police actions and whatnot. She hated going to the City Barracks, the only reason being that she absolutely despised that bitch receptionist Rina Gers. The feeling was mutual, and the two of them never felt comfortable within ten yards of each other. Thankfully, Measure Gers was replaced by a far more agreeable woman named Diana at the end of the month.

-

All things considered, the first day of Tithing went off relatively smoothly. Arrests were up three hundred percent, and the Triad of Order was scrambling to process the flood of cases, but by some stroke of fortune no one was killed. There were numerous injuries, many of which were caused by overzealous Acheronian enforcers, but no wound was so serious as to be life threatening. By the late afternoon, Factols Sarin, Hashkar, and Mallin were already proclaiming the operation a success. Areldis had gone into that day expecting the worst, but at the end she still had her virtue intact and coin in her pocket, so to her all was fine. She was lucky to be just a messenger in the Lady's Ward, traveling along the safest routes. A lone Mercykiller in a more unruly neighborhood would have presented a juicy target for random thieves seeking to "even the score." When Areldis finally got off work at half past six, she decided to go see how Jeireul was holding up.

The supply office was about to close, but as Areldis expected, the half-elf was hunched over his desk scanning over invoices. He was the only one there, and he was so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice his friend enter, and he only roused when Areldis called to him. "Are you busy, Justice?"

He laughed and replied, "You and Morwes both--you'll be rubbing in my promotion 'till the end of time." He stopped and looked at the records a bit more. "Something just doesn't make sense here."

"How so?"

"You see, there are just a few places that just don't feel right. Like here," he said, holding the invoice up and pointing to an entry on the bottom of the left page. "The number of green steel daggers--I coulda sworn that I wrote twenty-four this morning. Now it's twenty-three. And here, I thought I wrote eight, but it's apparently seven. I've gone back and counted these things myself, but all that did was confirm these numbers. It must be the stress and the lack of sleep getting to me. That must be it. I need a piking break."

Despite Jeireul's offhand dismissal of the situation, Areldis became alarmed. "May I see that?" she asked as she walked up to the table.

"Go right ahead," he replied, rotating the book so that his friend could read it.

While leafing through the book a thought occurred to her. "Do you write hard, Jeireul?"

"Not very much so, I don't think."

Of course, she didn't even wait for Jeireul's response before she grabbed a blank sheet of paper and a block of charcoal from a shelf. Flipping one page past the entry for green steel swords, she placed the blank sheet over the area where the imprint of the last page's entry would be. She started shading, and sure enough, the number twenty-four, barely discernable but present, appeared. The two of them exchanged nervous gazes before Areldis suddenly backed away, holding her palms out. "You know it wasn't me."

"Oh come on now, unless you can somehow fly back from the Courthouse in three minutes, slip in here all invisible, steal junk, and edit the invoices behind my back, I don't see how you could even be considered a suspect." His humor thus expended, he rose from his seat, turned towards the wall, and muttered through clenched teeth, "Damn it to hell. Of all the piking times, not now, pike it, not now!"

Areldis also realized the severity of this situation. Someone was again stealing supplies from the faction. It wasn't a simple question of overlooking or misplacing items. No, the records were deliberately tampered. Furthermore, as the head of logistics, Jeireul would be the first implicated if any word of this got out. It was imperative that this matter be handled carefully. Areldis stuck her head out the door and looked to the left and to the right. Confident that no one was eavesdropping, she shut the door and asked, "Whom do you trust, Jeireul? Morwes should be at the Last Dance, and I can go fish him out for you right now."

"No!" he interjected fiercely. "If you show up in front of everyone, you could tip off the real culprit. For now, the fewer that know about this, the better. I'll try to get in touch with the factol tomorrow, but for now, just keep this under your hat."

"Then who else can you trust? For that matter, why do you trust me? How are you sure that I'm not party to a black market conspiracy to bring you down?"

"I don't. However, since you are here, there's no way I can stop you from knowing about this short of killing you."

Areldis nodded.

"Do you know where Thana is at the moment?"

"Well, she did go home immediately after work, like always."

"I must talk to her. She lives in 527, about three blocks up from your kip. Fetch her for me."

"You trust her?"

"More than you, I'm afraid."

Areldis didn't quite understand this order, but she obeyed nonetheless, giving a quick nod and then heading out. The streets were still swarming with Mercykiller and Harmonium patrols on the lookout for thieves attempting to infiltrate the Lady's Ward, and for the duration of the journey, she was always within some guard's field of vision. Though it was getting dark, street lamps, enchanted to activate when overall brightness passed below a certain point, were already lit. Having gotten used to the layout of the Lady's Ward over the past month-and-a-half, she managed to find Thana's kip quickly. She wasted no time in knocking.

"Who is it?" asked a sultry female voice.

The tone was completely unexpected, making Areldis wonder if she was at the right place. She leaned closer to the door and inspected the address. "527, that's right," she muttered to herself.

"Who is it?" the voice asked again, this time in a straight, forceful tone. It was Thana all right.

"It's Areldis. May I come in for a minute?"

"What the hells are you doing disturbing me at this hour? Bother me with it tomorrow, will ya?"

"I assure you that it's important."

There was a rustling and then some thudding, followed by some cursing. The door opened, revealing a disheveled and pissed off nightgown-clad Thana Alsim, sword in hand. "The hell do you want? Be quick about it." Then, noticing Areldis's concerned expression, she instinctively felt that something was wrong. "Shit."

Areldis quickly entered, shutting the door gently behind her. She told Thana about Jeireul's predicament and that the young Justice needed to speak with her. Upon hearing that, she immediately started to dress, all the while pressing Areldis for more information. Much to her displeasure, the trainee couldn't offer much more. When she had finished dressing, the two of them left in a hurry, walking briskly but not running, lest they attract undue attention.

-

"So?" That was the sole word with which Jeireul greeted them as they entered the supply room.

"She checks out," Thana replied nonchalantly.

"Sorry to put you through that, Areldis, but I had to be sure. Thana here was using Detect Lie on you the whole time."

"It's an aasimar's gift."

"I understand." Normally, Areldis would have felt hurt in a situation like this, but she reminded herself that no matter how good of a friend she was, she was still a relative newcomer. She went to the door, shut it, and asked, "So what should we do?"

After getting the two women to huddle around the table, Jeireul proceeded to explain. He opened a drawer and pulled out a list about half a page long. He spoke in whispers. "These are some of the items that I suspect are missing. I don't know the full extent of the theft, though. Whoever did this was quite good, and he or she probably has magical training. Although I haven't been able to detect residual magic on these pages using the standard detection devices, I'm fairly certain that these records were magically altered. It's not every day that ink just lifts off a page."

Areldis and Thana both scanned the list and were amazed at what they saw. This was not the work of an average thief--almost every item on the list was enchanted. Granted, there was nothing truly unique and irreplaceable, but standard rings of protection, spell wands, and so forth dominated the list. "Someone's packing the hardware," Thana muttered half to herself.

"I'll try to talk to Factol Mallin tomorrow, but for now, don't let anyone know about this. However, there is one thing you can do for me in the meantime, Thana."

"You want me have a talk with Vino, right?"

Jeireul nodded.

"Who is this Vino?" asked Areldis.

"A cambion merchant in the Market--"

"'Merchant' is a light way to put it, Jeireul. The man's a bleeding fence and slippery as a yugoloth too. That maggot has extensive underworld connections. He deals mostly in magic, though he also dabbles in a bit of everything else, and he's so good at covering his tracks that no one has been able to pin a damn thing on him. Not that many want to, anyway. He's helped us to track down a number of stolen items in the past, and you could say that he's on our good side."

"Which is exactly why we must contact him. He also knows how to keep his damn mouth shut, probably because if word ever got out that he's working for the Mercykillers, he'd lose his shirt. Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll close up here and pretend like nothing's happened."

"One last thing," Thana whispered to Jeireul as she stormed into the storeroom. She reappeared moments later with a green steel longsword. She tossed it to Areldis, who caught it deftly by the hilt. "Ditch your damn toothpick," she commanded. "You're coming with me."

Vino's store was located at the end of Serpent's Walk, a circuitous route, that--for lack of a better term--snaked around the blocks down from the Great Bazaar. When Areldis and Thana arrived there, it was already well past nine, and by that time nearly all of the Great Bazaar's merchants and traders had packed up shop and gone home. The Harmonium presence in the area was still very heavy and would likely be so through the night, since the storerooms of the ward were at risk.

Vino's end of Serpent's Walk was definitely the newer, more fashionable end. Though it bordered on some very old and dilapidated neighborhoods, the buildings of the street were generally clean and well kept. It was a quirk of the road's construction. The expansion of Serpent's Walk was a convenient excuse whenever the city's leaders felt it necessary to evict some more poor people from the Market Ward. This usually occurred once every two or three years, although the representatives from the city's factions could never agree on specifically which blocks to demolish. Therefore, development was a uncoordinated and haphazard affair, and the convoluted road indeed lived up to its name.

As they approached the shop, Thana walked confidently in the lead with Areldis trailing two steps behind. When they caught sight of some shadows rustling in Vino's windows, they quickly ducked behind an open wooden crate that was lying on the side of the street. Having been used as a refuse bin, the crate smelled awful. Also, it apparently hadn't been emptied in some time, for the faint heat of decay could be detected. After enduring the stench for about a minute without any apparent signs of activity ahead, the two Mercykillers prepared to move closer. They rose but ducked back down in the same instant. The door opened. A black abishai popped out, dusted itself off, and went into an alleyway. Abishai were some of the most common of the baatezu, and they formed the bulk of Baator's field armies, usually as cannon fodder or low-grade garrison troops. Though not powerful by fiendish standards, they could easily rip most humans in half and thus were better avoided. Of the red, green, and black abishai, the black variety was the lowest. In general, they were a miserable lot, not nearly good enough to make red or green and too old to be spinagons. In fact, a good number of black abishai were promoted from spinagon simply because of a seniority clause in their contracts. They were universally despised, even by their comrades.

When the sound of the fiend's feet disappeared into the distance, Thana and Areldis moved towards the shop again. About ten yards from the door, Areldis nearly tripped as she saw something completely unexpected. Through the window, she could see the Harmonium officer Rina Gers sitting down at a table and sipping tea. She only saw the side of her face, but there was no mistaking it. The woman was even wearing a hauberk of red chain mail. "What's she doing here?" whispered an exasperated Areldis.

"This is bad. It'll be a disaster if the Harmonium meddles in this now. Let's wait this out and make him talk afterwards."

This time, the two Mercykillers retreated to an alleyway from where they popped occasional glances through Vino's window. From what they could see, the Harmonium officer was enjoying herself. She wore a genuine smile and seemed to be rather relaxed, more relaxed, in fact, than Areldis could ever recall seeing from her. Of course, that could have also had to do with the fact that they disliked each other and were uncomfortable in each other's presence. She was talking to someone whom both the Mercykillers assumed to be Vino, but no one could make out what was being said. Even Thana with a limited ability to read lips wasn't much of a help, since they were viewing her face from the side and could only see half of it. After about half an hour, Thana's patience was becoming strained. "I swear, I'm getting sick just looking at that face," she whispered in disgust.

"Quiet, she's coming out."

It seems that Rina Gers had been on patrol just prior to meeting the shopkeeper, for the moment she left Vino's, she put on her helmet and strapped a small heater-type shield to her left arm. She also put on a red cloth that covered the lower half of her face. With a face like that, it was easy to see why. After checking all her gear, the Harmonium officer started down the road. As the clinking of mail and the sound of soft boots on cobblestones drew closer, Areldis and Thana shrank back further into the shadows. They moved slowly and carefully, coming to a spot about five or six yards into the alleyway, where the diffused glow of the streetlights could not reach. There they hid, crouching down and pressing their bodies against the side of the building. They slowed their breathing and waited. The footsteps came closer and closer, until the Harmonium guard began crossing the mouth of the alley. She slowed her pace momentarily as she passed, but to Thana's and Areldis's relief, she did not turn to look into the darkness. When Measure Gers was safely out of earshot, the two exasperated Mercykillers were finally clear to approach Vino's store. Thana didn't even bother knocking as she pushed the door open and surged forward to a small circular table in the center of the room where a surprisingly presentable cambion was sitting.

Cambions were the horrific humanoid offspring of male tanar'ri and female humans. Most often, they were products of deception or outright rape, since the process of birthing a cambion almost invariably involved the death of the mother. Even the female worshippers of lower planar deities were not so foolhardy as to undertake this fatal deed. Generally, these creatures were tall and lanky with fanged teeth and pitch-black, scaly, and pockmarked skin. They were not pleasant on the eyes, though this one might have been blessed with the better end of the gene pool. Either that, or the calm and perhaps even pleasant expression that this cambion wore on his face made him seem rather approachable. And unlike many of his kind, he wore a simple brown smock and matching trousers, without any of the bladed and spiked projections that cambions normally favored. As Thana stood over him and prepared to order him around, he merely said, "A pleasure to be graced by the highborn at this time of night." Unperturbed, he then drank some of the tea in his cup without raising his eyes.

"Close the shutters, Areldis," Thana commanded.

"Unfortunately, the shutters were destroyed in an unfortunate accident yesterday. If you are here to replace them for me, I would be forever grateful." Again, he didn't bother to look up, and he just sat in his chair drinking his tea.

Thana grunted in frustration. "Just block the sodding window, trainee!"

The sole window of the store's façade was about a foot wide and two feet high. It was low enough for Areldis to cover with her back, and that was exactly what she did, since it was the simplest and quickest solution available. Truth be told, from Thana's description of Vino, Areldis was expecting something...more. For a man supposedly entrenched in the black market, Vino certainly had little to show for it. The main room of the store was unassuming and downright plain, consisting of a twenty by twenty foot square lined with drab wooden shelves approximately five-and-a-half feet high. A typical wooden counter sat near the far end, and a rather scratched and dented circular table about a yard wide sat in the center. As for the contents of the shelves, they were exceedingly uninteresting. Nothing sparkled or shined, and every inch of fabric displayed was of some dull shade of brown, green, or black. A door behind the counter probably led to a storeroom of some sort where Vino kept his more "interesting" items. In any case, Areldis found it hard to believe that this was actually a magic shop.

"My, Vino," a severely annoyed Thana said, "what are you doing having tea with the Harmonium at this time of night?"

"Tea? Would you care for some, since there's plenty left?"

How tanar'ri, Areldis thought to herself as she observed the scene. These fiends were creatures of chaos, unsuited for systematic action or behavior. It was little wonder that they came armed with green steel, for it would take some prodding to get straight responses out of this one.

Her already thin patience reaching an end, she demanded, "What was your business with Measure Gers?"

"Do I sense jealousy?" he answered with a facetious grin. "Well, I-I'm flattered, but don't you think I'm a little too old for your tastes?"

"Cut the shit, maggot!" Thana flew into a blind rage, grabbing Vino by the collar and hoisting him up from his seat before throwing him to the floor. It was the first time that Areldis saw her boss express such unmitigated anger, and it was the first time that she realized just how strong the woman's aasimar frame was. She, like Areldis, had celestial heritage in her blood, though from the looks of it Thana's abilities were far more developed than hers. As Vino brought himself to a sitting position on the floor, the Mercykiller justice stood over him with a scowl that promised additional violence. "I'm not inclined to appreciate your games tonight, Wino," she told him in a tone that was as acerbic as it was menacing.

"I was only complimenting your youthful exuberance, Justice," Vino answered as he stood up. Then, noticing that these sugarcoated words had the sole effect of drawing Thana's right hand to the hilt of her sheathed sword, Vino raised his hands in mock surrender. He slowly walked around to the other side of the counter, folded his arms, and rested his elbows on the surface. He then put on a fiendishly obtrusive grin, revealing two rows of sharpened teeth. "What is it that you need from me tonight?"

Thana again repeated her query.

"Those eyes of yours can certainly see that I offer only the truth in saying that the Harmonium has a nasty penchant for investigating jarked and fenced items. I'm afraid I've become so accustomed to it that entertaining the hardheads has become an unshakeable habit. But somehow I feel that I'm not so important as to warrant such esteemed inquiries into my mundane affairs."

With this, the aasimar leaned in closer, until her face was only inches away from the cambion's. She proceeded to speak to him in a hushed whisper, which was quiet enough so that Areldis's above average hearing only managed to catch every other word. Nonetheless, Areldis heard enough to more or less piece together what was being said. Thana briefly explained the situation that had occurred with the stolen equipment, and she pulled out the list Jeireul had made and directed Vino to copy it. After having done without so much as a snort in protest, the cambion backed away and regarded Thana quizzically. For once, he seemed to take more than a playful interest in the conversation. "I understand this situation and what you want me to do. However, this is some serious junk you want me to track, so I want to know what I can get out of this."

"Tell me, and I'll see."

"I want you," he said flatly. Thana's eyes widened as she recoiled in shock, a look of sheer bewilderment on her face. Before she was able to collect herself enough to draw her blade, Vino cackled with laughter. Before the noticeably riled justice was able to get a word in, he continued his previous statement. "To promise me that you will tell no one of this, not even your precious factol, not even Jeireul. This stays among the three of us."

"That's it? You're doing this essentially for free?" Thana asked incredulously. "Why?"

"My reasons are my own, but what more could you ask for?" he replied with a whimsical shrug.

Thana's eyes narrowed. "What if I tell?"

"Do you honestly think that you will find another informant as cooperative as I? I'll be really putting my neck on the block for this, and I want to be sure that I will have the...space to conduct my...investigation. So please show a little appreciation, will ya?"

After half a minute of uneasy silence, Thana acquiesced. "Fine, I accept," she muttered unenthusiastically. She then tilted her head to the side, eyeing Areldis.

The trainee nodded.

"Glad to see that you Mercykillers display such faith in me."

"I don't trust you," Thana spat back in a half-snarl. "If you--"

"Well, that's just the pits isn't it? All that you need to do is to keep your end of the deal, and I keep mine. I'll let you know if anything turns up."

"You have one week."

"Fine, fine. It's a deal, yes?"

Thana nodded slowly and then sighed, not pleased to be a player in the latest of Vino's less-than-amusing games. Even without seeing the expression on her boss's face, Areldis completely understood what the woman was going through. Even more than herself, Thana was the sort of person who could not rest easy without establishing dictatorial mastery of her surroundings. No doubt running her subordinates ragged every day contributed greatly to her peace of mind. Now, with the control divested from her hands, she was feeling just about as alone as a Blood War deserter in the Gray Waste. Unable to bear this much longer, Thana turned away and walked to the door in a hurry, directing Areldis to follow with a tilt of the head. For some reason, the aasimar's mental discomfort was reflected in her physical appearance; her graying neck-length mane was noticeably more disheveled than it was earlier that night. As Thana left, Areldis was obliged to follow, though she moved cautiously and kept Vino in sight with a sidelong glance. She too did not trust this cambion, largely because he was a cambion--a tanar'ri, a lower planar creature born of chaos. Unlike their lawful baatezu adversaries, who were keen to negotiate every convoluted manner of written contract, these tanar'ri operated on instinct and caprice. Chaos defined their existence, and thus the word of a tanar'ri meant less than nothing. With Thana out the door, Vino's jocular expression changed to one of severe austerity as he scrutinized Areldis along the length of her body with an intense, piercing gaze. The Mercykiller managed to maintain her staid countenance, but in her heart she was more than a little unnerved. This exchange lasted only seconds, though time seemed to slow considerably for Areldis. She was at last relieved to make it out the door, but not before Vino gestured in mock salute from behind the counter.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 6

At two before peak the next day, Areldis once again marched down Serpent's Walk to the Mercykillers' favorite cambion's shop. Recalling the events of the morning, she sighed deeply and wanted to kick herself. Within a few hours, the situation had gone to hell, and here she was, walking by herself to the house of a man she barely trusted. As Vino's store came into sight, she instinctively straightened her brigandine and checked the sword she carried at her side. She wondered if this was yet another one of Vino's self-amusing distractions. She kept walking. What Thana told her before she left was not very reassuring. "Don't worry," she had said, "if you get killed, there won't be a possibility of escape for our dear friend. We'll have him scragged, dragged, and eaten in the blink of an eye." Very comforting indeed, she mused. Areldis once more and ran through the morning's events in her head.

-

The morning had started like any other. She got up from bed a bit groggier than usual due to the activity of the previous night. It was not so much the activity but the ensuing anxiety that deprived her of a restful sleep. She had truly felt deep concern for Jeireul, whom by now she considered a close and trusted friend, even though last night proved that the short history of their friendship still presented some barriers. How typical of her--conscious as she was, she never did exercise enough restraint in personal relations, probably because she didn't have many emotional investments when she was growing up in her parents' secluded woodland home. The ones she did have, the ones in her family, were intensified accordingly.

After the daily ritual of staring at her sketch of Psiros's face in an attempt to re-imprint the memory of her father into her mind, she headed off to work, much like she had done every day for the past month-and-a-half. She checked in, ate her typically large breakfast, and said hello to Morwes and Roga as if nothing had happened. Everything had seemed perfectly fine and under control, until she decided to pay Jeireul a visit--well, after she had gone to the supply room to find it locked shut. Pressing her ear against the door only frustrated her with silence, so she headed back the way she came. It was then that she passed across the main lobby and saw a squad of six Harmonium guards leave the front desk. She heard them mention Jeireul in their verbal exchange with the desk officer, which caused a shiver to run down her back. It didn't sound like they had pleasant intentions. The female officer at the head of the troop was wearing a red scarf covering her nose and mouth, and Areldis knew her identity immediately. The two engaged contemptuous stares as the squad moved closer and closer to the Mercykiller messenger, who, driven by a renewed sense of pride, stood still with the intent to block their passage.

Measure Gers closed within a few feet and stopped. She stepped to the left and then to the right, but each time the Mercykiller matched pace, so they reverted to their starting positions. The Harmonium officer commanded her to move as if speaking to a lackey. Naturally, she took great offense, as if the mere sight of that immaculate visage didn't annoy her enough.

"This isn't your house, little soldier," she spat back in reply, straightening to her full height and narrowing her eyes for effect. "What do you want here?"

"We are here to arrest that stag turning sinker-spawn you have running your supplies. We are operating with the authority of Mover Four Valens Prak, so stand aside."

"According to the laws of this city, you've no jurisdiction within these walls, not without the permission of our factol. Until I'm certain that he and only he has allowed your presence, I won't let you pass."

What followed was a tense silence that was soon broken as two of the armored Harmonium troopers lunged towards Areldis with the intention of grappling her and forcing her to the ground. Fortunately, her quick reflexes saved her as she quickly jumped to the side. The two guards collided in mid-air, and they landed on the floor, creating a momentary cacophony of clangs. Areldis was now standing about ten feet away from Measure Gers and was leaning slightly forward with her right hand drawn across and tightly gripping the hilt of her sword. Measure Gers calmly stepped over her fallen comrades and brought her right hand and reciprocated the motion. She was daring the Mercykiller to draw.

Indeed, Areldis would have done so and serious injury would have ensued if Morwes hadn't made his timely entrance. He had heard the commotion from down the hall and ran to the scene. When he arrived, he saw two downed Harmonium guards and Areldis standing in a defensive position, being stared down by the arrogant eyes of Measure Gers. A couple of Mercykiller guards from the main entrance were also approaching. "Explain," he commanded to no one in particular.

"They're here to arrest Jeireul," Areldis said in reply without taking her eyes off her adversary.

"Is this true?"

"Yes," Measure Gers began to say. However, when she realized that Morwes was not looking at her but to the githyanki gate guard who had moved in behind her squad, she stopped speaking.

"Grule?"

The lanky githyanki nodded once.

Morwes's response could be best described as the greatest display of unmitigated rage that Areldis had seen within the confines of the prison. At least as unmitigated as Morwes's aristocratic mode of speech would allow. "Why was I not informed of this?" the justicar yelled. "You Harmonium slags think that you can just intrude upon our internal affairs? Do you presume to handle our matters for us? That we are incapable directing our own faction? Where is your sodding evidence?"

"A source who will remain anonymous. I cannot say more. In these times we cannot afford any suspicion or dissent. If--"

"We have tolerated enough of your faction's suspicions. What? Didn't get enough gratification out of your interrogations last time? Back for more? You will not find us so compliant this time. Now pike off, you sodding sops!"

When Morwes finished, the other Mercykillers there rose in cheer and support, the memories of the last Harmonium investigation still fresh in their minds. Instantly, it became a matter of faction pride, and the sentiment was contagious. More Mercykillers, hearing the clamor, rushed to the lobby and soon a ring of jeering factioneers formed around the Harmonium squad. Though the threat of lethal violence subsided a bit, a vociferous battle of words ensued. So many insults were hurled simultaneously that one could barely discern one from the other. The argument crescendoed quickly and sure enough, Factol Mallin himself arrived to see what the commotion was about. A few steps behind the powerful man stood Jeireul, partially obscured by the burly man's frame. After learning of the situation from the members of his faction, Mallin spoke. Anger tinged his booming voice. "Get. Out!" he told the Harmonium troop.

"But--" Measure Gers tried to say but was cut off by an irate Mallin.

"I gave you no permission to speak to me. Go tell your superiors that I will not speak to anyone but your Factol Sarin on this matter. No less. Now get out!"

Thoroughly defeated, the Harmonium troop departed amidst cheering and jeering from the Mercykiller crowd. It was a most triumphant reassertion of the faction's honor, but Areldis knew that troubled times were ahead. What she, Thana, and Jeireul had tried to keep under wraps was now in the open. Not only that, but it was also an official interfaction affair, and the Mercykillers could conceivably have the Harmonium breathing down their collective back for some time to come. It had to be Vino, Areldis told herself. He was the only person outside the three of them who knew of this, and he was the only one capable of betrayal. He must have gone crying to his Harmonium bedmates. How she wanted to knock that accursed grin from that maggot's face.

When the Harmonium were out of sight and everyone had settled down a bit, Factol Mallin asked Morwes if he had initiated the dispute. He shook his head and looked at Areldis, who nodded under the factol's gaze. Mallin directed her to come to him, and she did without hesitation. She and Jeireul followed him back to his office, where Thana Alsim was waiting for them. Mallin took his seat behind his desk, Areldis and Jeireul sat down on small stools in front of it, and Thana just remained standing to the right of the desk, leaning casually with her back against the wall. "I swear on my blood that someone will pay for this," Thana muttered half to herself while staring blankly at the floor. She said "someone," but Areldis could tell that she probably meant Vino.

"I won't let them touch your nephew."

Nephew? That word struck Areldis like a divine revelation. She wondered how for six weeks she had managed to work alongside both Thana and Jeireul without realizing the relation between the two. Obviously, Thana was a member of his adoptive family, but she was a relation nonetheless. True, they weren't exactly open about it, but this sort of thing wasn't essential for the job, and Areldis only saw the two of them while on duty. She met Jeireul occasionally after-hours, but until last night she never said a word to Thana outside the prison's walls. She figured that the fault lay with herself, for she never took interest to inquire about this, nor did she have any particular reason to do so. Well, now she knew. Friends and associates can fail, but family ties are permanent. Now it made perfect sense that Jeireul placed such trust in Thana. Perfect sense.

Then, without even thinking, Thana broke the half-hearted promise she had made the previous night. "I say we go down to Vino's and--"

"Vino?" Mallin inquired, briefly puzzled. "Hmm..."

Thana knew that she had slipped. "I-I-I" Her mouth stood agape, struggling for words. Soon, however, her nervousness faded into anger. "That maggot knows! He's the only one else who knows about Jeireul and this, so if there's a leak, it has to be him. I say we go down there and drill a lesson into his piking bone-box."

"No, Justice, I do not think that would be wise. Without the Red Death, there's nothing stopping our friend from getting scragged, and I doubt that he would dare to betray us so ostensibly. To do so would be literal suicide."

"The factol's right, Thana. Vino may be a tanar'ri, but he's sharp."

"He may be planning."

"In which case it would be advantageous to observe before acting. Rash action will get us nowhere. I shall wait for Sarin. In the meantime..." Mallin trailed off, shifting his gaze towards Areldis, who had been sitting there attentively silent all the while. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk, which, when framed by the menacing Sigilian helm, took on a strangely sinister air. "Care to do some recon for me, trainee?"

How could she refuse the factol's request? She hesitated briefly to formulate the appropriate response. "I am always ready to serve, Factol."

"Very good. You leave right now."

"What are your specific instructions?"

"You're not getting any, trainee. Talk to him, report back what you find. The rest is up to your discretion."

The woman carefully measured Mallin's words, quickly realizing that Factol Mallin was testing her. This was to be her mission, and she was to pick Vino's brain by asking the right questions. Saluting respectfully, she moved towards the office's exit. As she opened the door and headed out, she heard Thana utter those less-than-encouraging words.

-

At this point in time, Areldis stood within arm's reach the front door of Vino's shop. The clear skies of the early morning had since been replaced with slightly overcast ones, and it was beginning to drizzle the slick, sooty rain known and loathed by all Cagers. The lone window on the store's façade was securely boarded, without even the slightest crack from which light could enter. Leaning in close to the door, she heard the faint sweeping of a broom and the scraping of a dustpan. Footsteps that she presumed to be the cambion's drew closer, and before she could properly react, the door flew open and a load of dust landed on her. An amused and largely unapologetic Vino dressed in his typically drab getup nonchalantly observed the incident that he had just caused.

"Oh, didn't know you were there. Sorry about that. Please, do come in, but be sure to dust yourself off first," the fiend said with feigned concern. He didn't even wait for Areldis's response before heading back, though he did keep the door ajar out of a modicum of courtesy.

The Mercykiller grunted in frustration and patted down her clothes as best as she could. Most of the dust flew off, but some of it had become matted in her cloak, slick in mixture with the rain. She spat on the ground and entered. Inside, she found the cambion seated at his small round table, the same table over which he and Measure Gers were drinking tea the previous night. He was in the process of setting rows of small figurines on a checkered 12x12 game board. "Please, take a seat," Vino told her as she wiped her boots off on his welcome mat.

Areldis sat down opposite Vino, doing her best to suppress her extreme annoyance.

"You know how to play?"

"This is castling, is it not?" "Castling" was the common name of a variant of chess popular in the lower planes. It was played on a larger board, and instead of pitting two evenly matched human armies, castling dealt with the tanar'ri and baatezu forces of the blood war, coded red and black, respectively. Areldis gently picked up a red-enameled game piece and examined it diligently before setting it back down. She did this with several pieces.

"My sources tell me that you are a prime. You must learn quickly."

"Where's the marilith?"

"Why, you're holding the tanar'ri commander."

Areldis blinked and reexamined the piece she held in her right hand. At first glance, this unremarkable two-inch-high figurine, a humanoid with a set of wings folded over the shoulders, appeared to be an ordinary succubus. However she then noted the fine symbol engraved into the armor on her back. It depicted a raised fist surrounded by five small triangles pointing inward. "This--this is the mark of the Legion." Fragments of decaying memory began to surface. Mother, she thought to herself. The Bloodfist Legion was her mother's unit during her time in the war, she was sure of it. And this was--yes, this had to be her. Is this what she looked like? she asked herself. Now that her memory was being beaten away with each passing night, she couldn't say. Only disjointed fragments came to her as she tried to recall.

Vino cocked his head and smirked, obviously intrigued by the unexpected recognition. "Marshal Gav, the greatest field commander in the history of the Abyss. I'd offer a toast to her to her memory, but it's not yet peak, and only degenerates and aristocrats drink wine in the morning. Now, what would a prime berk be knowing about the Legion?"

"You live in this city long enough, you hear things."

"Hardly anyone talks about that in this city, unless it's behind closed doors.

"Why is that?"

"You know what happened to the Legion, of course."

"Weren't they destroyed?"

"About ten years ago, they were completely annihilated after a 5-year campaign by the Baatezu. The bloodiest sodding thing these planes have seen. The Baatezu lost six entire orders destroyed and another four smashed up so badly they had to be disbanded. Even now, they're still not back up to strength. Normally, such an apocalyptic slaughter of demons and their allies would be cheered. Problem is, they took half the Outlands with them."

The pieces began to fall in place. The silences began to make sense. Morwes never did elaborate on the circumstances of his arrival in Sigil a decade ago. Nor did he ever really explain why he and his brother both decided upon careers in law enforcement, a most unlikely profession for even the most impoverished nobles. Now that she thought about it, a number of her fellow Mercykillers mentioned coming to the city ten years ago. Justice Fersi, for example. It was little wonder that he and Morwes were so close. Vino was right. People didn't speak of it. Though it was common knowledge that the Bloodfist Legion was no longer active, the process of its demise was something that she had not heard until now. People avoided it, as if merely saying the name of the Legion would bring back the horrors of that war. On the planes, words and belief were power.

"But enough gloomy talk. This is supposed to be fun. I await your first move."

"Did I ever say that I was going to play with you?"

"I'm the host, and you're the guest. Please, do humor me. You do know how to play, of course."

To this Areldis replied with her hand, picking up a dretch from the front row with her two forefingers and plopping it down two squares forward. Vino hummed in amusement as he reciprocated the move. "I understand that there's been a disturbance at the City Prison this morning."

"So you've heard already?" Areldis replied, advancing another dretch.

"You'd be surprised how fast rumor travels in this city, girl. You're probably wondering if I've stagged you out or something. Well, are you?" Taking the Mercykiller's impassive gaze as a yes, he continued, "Well, I didn't. With so many piking jokers running around this month and as an owner of a small business, the last thing I need is a disruption in the ranks of law. I hope you understand, friend."

"So who else could it have been? Hmm, I do remember a certain Harmonium officer sitting in this very chair last night."

"Her? She may be bold but she's not suicidal. She was supposedly on patrol in the Clerk's Ward last night, and to tell you the truth, I would really enjoy seeing her try to explain why she was here drinking tea with me instead."

"So it wasn't just a routine shakedown, eh?" For a moment, Areldis thought that she had taken command of the conversation and had turned the tables against this perpetual jester.

Vino shrugged, not in the least ruffled.

"Is there an...affiliation I should know about?"

"That, my dear Mercykiller, is personal information that is not relevant to your inquiry." His large grin revealed two rows of perfectly-formed sharpened teeth. Oddly enough, the tanar'ri did not seem the least bit threatening.

The mental image of a Harmonium officer together with a tanar'ri was too iconoclastic for Areldis to maintain a straight face.

"So, you do have a sense of humor. I'm beginning to like you better than Thana already. Speaking of her, when'd she tell the factol about our little arrangement?"

"She didn't."

"Come clean, girl. I know she did." Vino gave her a commanding glare that was as austere and humorless as the cliffs of Shurrock.

Caught off guard by the cambion's sudden shift in attitude, Areldis replied, "It-It just slipped out this morning. How did you know?"

"I didn't. Finish your move."

The Mercykiller wanted to kick herself for being bluffed into revealing information. There was no possible way the cambion knew of what went on in Mallin's office, as the room was shielded from sound and from magic. A passerby could have heard the commotion near the entrance and slipped a rumor with the wind, but what was said in the factol's quarters was information closed to the outside. Only the Lady of Pain herself could know. Areldis poured herself into the game. The two of them played in silence for the next hour, with Areldis occasionally asking for clarification on the rules. Though she could not remember when she had last played this game, it was nonetheless familiar. However, it was clear that Vino was much more practiced than she. Within a dozen moves, the cambion had begun to mount a sizable assault on her left flank. After her dretch pickets were unceremoniously brushed aside, Areldis found herself on the defensive for the rest of the game. She had lost the initiative, and every move she made was a response to contain the attack. Vino would capture one of her lesser pieces, possibly opening a hole in the line, she would bring artillery in line to shore up the weakness, and the whole line would pull back into an ever-tightening formation. The game was already a foregone conclusion, but she made her opponent pay dearly for every square gained. When she finally conceded the match, she had been reduced to three pieces--the commander, a cambion, and a lone dretch that somehow managed to survive. The opposing force had been mauled down to a mere seven pieces.

Vino finally broke the silence. "And here I was expecting a complete pushover. You're certainly not what I expected. I assume that you came on Mallin's orders and not Thana's?" After receiving no response, he cocked an eyebrow and sneered. "Not like it matters anyway. I trust Mallin to keep his mouth shut better than that woman. In any case, let's run over the things we know, shall we?"

Then, with un-tanar'ri-like precision, he proceeded to delineate a chronology of major events that had occurred recently in the Mercykiller faction. First came the event that precipitated the current crisis: the black market bust in the last week of Accordant. A gang of thieves with connections to various small-time arms dealers throughout Sigil was operating from the faction's stores. A young clerk named Jeireul Edali emerged as a hero of the faction after he blew the whistle on the entire operation. Already a favorite of the factol, he was quickly promoted to head the logistics of the prison. Concurrently, the Harmonium ran an investigation that quite literally combed the ranks, dragging in more than a hundred Red Death personnel in the following three weeks for questioning. In particular, they took great interest in Jeireul himself, as he was the only supply clerk not touched by the scandal. Being the son of an executed Doomguard criminal just made things more difficult for him. However, all attempts to implicate the half-elf failed, and the investigation was closed. Jeireul, for bearing the ordeal with quiet dignity, became a faction hero for a second time while the Harmonium sulked away to nurse their own wounded pride. Relaying the words of Measure Gers, Vino told his guest that a great number of Harmonium still viewed Jeireul as a potential criminal and were increasingly wary of the Mercykillers' intentions.

As he relayed this information to the Mercykiller, Vino's face bore no hint of his customary half-cocked grin, and a quiet intensity diffused in his expression. It was a side of the cambion that Areldis had not expected to see, and to say the least she was startled. She studied the man's face intently. Cambions were by and large not pleasant to look at, but she nearly found herself lost tracing over this one's fine scales and chiseled features. His voice, stripped of exasperating drollery, entranced with its soft yet stern tones. This man--or, rather--half-man was the kind of man that mothers warn against and secretly desire. What he was doing living as a small-time shopkeeper and fence was anyone's guess.

Areldis reflected upon Vino's words. While the investigation was officially closed, the wounds opened by the scandal had yet to fully heal. There was still a good amount of understated animosity between the Harmonium and the Mercykillers, two factions that otherwise seemed naturally joined at the hip. Areldis had experienced this firsthand in her job as a faction courier. Even though Diana the Guardian had replaced Measure Gers at the desk, Areldis's interactions with the Harmonium were usually no more than abrupt and perfunctory. She also noticed that in her presence the Hardheads tended to carry themselves with an air of superiority. It wasn't overt, but Areldis could just sense it. At first she had thought it was a reaction to her specifically, but soon she came to realize just how generalized the sentiment was. During all of Narciss, as the factions were gearing up for the general lawlessness of Tithing, she would often hear unflattering references to the Harmonium. Mercykillers regarded them as overbearing and likened them to dogs. Likewise, the Hardheads returned the favor. One only had to pick at the wound to get the blood flowing again. Her eyes opened wide in realization.

"Wait, Vino, wait. So what you're telling me is that these thefts are not mere thefts but provocations aimed at disrupting the Triad of Law?" This conclusion was so obvious that she felt like kicking herself for not seeing it before. She, like everyone else, had assumed that the faction stores swelling like they did during Narciss just made a convenient target for robbery and black marketeering. But she saw now. Jeireul was the focal point of the Red Death's resentment, frustration, and now even open anger towards the Harmonium. "Yank on Jeireul, and you yank on us all. Bring charges against him, and the entire faction is insulted. Bring him to trial, and the entire process of law is consumed. Is this what you're trying to tell me?"

"Why Mercykiller, I've told you nothing. That conclusion is your own." The cambion's grin returned.

-

That night, Areldis was invited to dinner at Melrasat's home. The old Justicar lived in one of the larger homes situated close to the prison, where all the streets were heavily patrolled by faction guards. Now, in Narciss with the addition of the Acheronian patrols, the sound of marching boots filled the air with menace. Only Mercykillers could rest in such conditions unfazed, and Areldis was no exception. She had acclimated herself remarkably well in such a short time--the daily cruelties involved in running a prison no longer attracted her eye. They no longer carried any surprise, nor did they elicit compassion. They became thoroughly mundane sights not worthy of her consideration. Besides, as of late she had far more important things on her mind.

After work, she walked the four blocks down to Justicar Eran's. She was rather pleased that evening, pleased with the way that the crisis earlier in the day had resolved itself. She had told the Factol of the conclusion that Vino hinted at, and it only seemed to confirm the man's suspicions. Though he dismissed Areldis without praise or reprimand, it was pretty apparent that he approved. Later, Factol Sarin of the Harmonium made a special round to the prison to meet privately with Mallin. The meeting, which only lasted a few minutes, resulted in the Harmonium agreeing to suspend its investigation for the time being. Areldis was happy, but the more she thought about it, the more she was unable to decide if her happiness was the result of her friend's good fortune or the Harmonium's misfortune. For the life of her she could not tell one way or the other. After some deliberation, she just gave up on it and resolved not to trouble herself with these extraneous thoughts. Still, she couldn't help wondering what this said about her.

As she neared the justicar's two-story home, the first drops of rain fell, producing small rhythmic pings of sound as they struck her helmet. Annoyed, Areldis pulled off her helmet and prepared to don her cloak's hood, but she stopped when she noticed something odd. The rain was not the oily grime she had become accustomed to but fresh, clear water. The strong gales that had started up in the mid-afternoon, blowing up the spire and across Sigil, must have cleared out the sooty precipitate gathered in the center of the Sigilian ring. She stopped, opened her mouth to the sky, and tasted the tasteless pearls of water as they landed on her tongue, her mind flashing vague sensations of her former life on the prime. Several minutes of agonizing bliss ensued as she attempted to pull these fragments of memory to light but to no avail. The rain soaked her clothes and drained her body of heat, and she enjoyed every second, every droplet that touched her skin. It had been far too long since she had last seen clean, uncontaminated rain. Still, her dinner appointment was pressing. Reluctantly she turned her eyes from the sky back to the road.

-

"So we're gonna wait for this recruit?" asked Sub-Commander Li Shanlin of the Acheronians as she picked the dirt from under her fingernails with a pocketknife. It was apparent that she was becoming quite bored sitting at this food-deprived dining table, which was small and rectangular, seating one at either end and two on either side. Naturally, the old justicar and his gracefully-aged wife Lida took positions at the heads. Morwes sat with Sub-Commander Li on one side, and Morthus took his place on the other. The plates and bowls had been set, and all that was needed was the arrival of the final guest.

"Yes, for the--" Morwes stopped mid-sentence as a rapid knocking was heard.

Melrasat turned his head towards the front door. "Who is it?"

"Areldis."

The old man stirred from his seat, moved to the door, and undid the latch. He shook hands with the woman warmly as she entered. "You're soaking."

"It's beautiful outside, Justicar. I couldn't resist." Areldis surveyed the table, feeling slightly dismayed at seeing the Sub-Commander's unfamiliar face adjacent to Morwes's. She did not know why she was suddenly struck by this uneasy feeling, but she pushed it aside and dropped down in the seat next to Morthus. Even at her stature she felt dwarfed by the massive man, though judging from his reaction, it was he who was unnerved more by their proximity. "Hah, Morwes, if I'd known you were bringing a friend, I'd have dragged Jeireul here with me."

It was Morthus who answered. "As far back as I can remember, that little berk's gone straight home each and every night."

"What does he do?"

"Well, he shares a kip with his aunt."

"Wait, I thought he lived in 506. I mean, I saw him go there just last week."

"That hovel belongs to his older brother Saero, who works in records, by the way. He goes there from time to time as well. With all the time you've been spending near him, woman, I'm surprised."

"How does this explain Jeireul's little self-imposed curfew?"

"It doesn't. Though knowing Thana, she probably needs him for...something or another."

"Hells, Morthus, are you being perverse again?" Morwes interjected.

"Hey!"

"What's perverse?" Li asked absently, still cleaning her fingernails.

Morwes sighed. "Were you even listening?"

"Not at all."

Morthus tried and failed to restrain a laugh. The same was likewise true for Justicar Eran, and even Lida, so prim and proper with her silver hair tied in a tight bun, cracked a smile. Then the old matron proceeded to excuse herself and started for the kitchen, but Morthus immediately stood up and, putting his palm out and smiling, signaled for her to stay put. Instead of her, he went. For Areldis, this was a side of Morthus that she had not seen before. From what she had observed, the man's day-to-day behavior was gruff and haughty bordering on arrogant. However, here he was--compassionate, humble, and smiling. They were close, no doubt.

Moments later Morwes reappeared carrying a large pot of stew. It was the only dish served at this dinner, though no one was apparently disappointed. To all present, the company was the more important, and they all ate heartily while discussing the inanities and trivialities of their lives. The atmosphere was so cordial that Areldis found herself almost completely disarmed. For once, she seemed to forget that she was in the presence of her superiors. Even the typically austere Sub-Commander Li smiled and laughed with the rest. Areldis did not fully understand why the Acheronian was here, but it was clear that she had some sort of history with the others. What that history was Areldis could not tell--the trivial conversations at the table didn't shed much light. As the night went on, she felt a small nagging unease every time she saw the Acheronian's sinewy hand pat Morwes's back or shoulder, every time she brought her slightly upturned lips to his ear to whisper, every time she turned her lean, tanned visage to fix her gracefully elongated eyes on him. She seemed friendly enough, but as the night wore on, questions entered her mind. Honestly, what was an Acheronian doing here? The way she almost eagerly related instances of death and torture--Areldis hardly believed that such things would sit well with the even-handed old Justicar, much less Morwes. Nonetheless, there rose not one complaint for the entire length of the dinner.

As the night wound down, the table began taking on a more somber tone. The conversations shifted to immediate faction business, much of which revolved around the day's events. Melrasat mildly scolded Li's command for being overly aggressive, a sentiment to which Morwes nodded in agreement. "I know that this is your first time in this command, but I must remind you that you're not fighting a war here," he told her. "Keep this up, and the Harmonium will be breathing down our necks in no time."

What surprised Areldis was the Acheronian's reaction. Li too nodded in agreement. "You're right, and I know I should have worked better to prevent this. But, you have to understand. Just last month we fought a bloody draw with a dozen regiments of renegade baatezu, and have to understand how frustrated these men are feeling."

"Ever thought of leaving all that behind? Leaving Acheron? Coming here?" asked the younger Tallhammer.

"Just about every damn day. Why do you think I volunteered to head this battalion?"

"Dear old friends?" Morwes replied with a playful smile.

"Ha! As much as I love all of you, the fact is that I want out of that hell. But you'd be surprised just how little control even one of my rank has over assignment, especially when one's only marketable skills involve killing. We have a fine merit system--the high-ups in Acheron will fight tooth and nail to retain any and all competent field commanders in the grinder. Can't blame 'em, considering how Vorkehan's very existence depends upon the strength of our army. And if you're gonna to ask about resigning, don't. The army owns my soul for another two years--signed one of those eight-year contracts."

"If you seek reassignment at that time, I will certainly do what I can to help."

"You can count on it..._Justicar_ Tallhammer."

That last comment seemed to stir the gears of memory in Justicar Eran's head. The old man stroked the stubble on his jowls with his right hand; the others one by one turned their gazes to him and waited for what he was about to say. "That reminds me, Morwes. About your promotion."

"Not going as expected?"

"Honestly, no."

"The concern is Ridnir Tetch, is it not?

"Look, Morwes, you know that I've always agreed with your judgment in this matter, and the factol does too. That charlatan and his hospital cripples, kills, and makes barmy more people every year than the City Prison. The Hardheads hate him, we hate him, the Dusties really hate him, and even the Sensates want him locked away. However, the fact is that we're not going to get him at this rate. He's well protected, both within the Bleakers and outside with his Taker and Signer supporters. Every year we've brought this up in the Hall, it's come to a stalled vote. Our opponents are certainly wasting no opportunity to ridicule us and our allies for our apparent weakness, so there are a growing number of senior council members who feel that this case is doing nothing but tying down resources and damaging our image."

"Are you telling me that in order to advance in this faction I should just let this whoreson do as he pleases?"

"I'm not telling you what you should do. I'm telling you what will happen if you decide to proceed. A number of our senior Justicars will block your promotion, you can be sure of it. Ultimately, the decision is yours, and whatever you decide, I'll support it."

"Morwes," came Shan's voice in a pleading tone, "I'll understand completely if you--"

"No and no!" he interrupted with outrage. "I shall proceed, as I have done last year and the year before last. Regardless what our enemies may say about me, this has been my work even before... This is my answer, and I shall not waver."

A small smile appeared on the old man's lips. "I would have expected no less."

Shan whispered something into Morwes's ear. It was inaudible to the other humans at the table, but Areldis heard it. "You're much kinder than I, Comrade."

Smiles crept back. Areldis gazed at the old childless couple, the refugee brothers, and the Acheronian officer. It was an odd sort of family, and she wondered that by sitting here this night she was being welcomed among them. There were things that she did not know, things that they shared with each other but not with her. She wanted to ask. She wished to know more about Morwes's past, about his memories of the war and about his painful history with this doctor Tench. But seeing the happy faces around the table, she could not find it in herself to disturb them. For this moment, she was just happy to be here.

-

Rina Gers's dark eyes flashed with anger. She stood up from her seat at Vino's tea table, slammed her palms down, and stared menacingly at the cambion. "Damnit, Vino, I want to know what the hells you were thinking! I don't have to remind you again that this shit with the Mercykillers--"

The cambion merely shrugged with the nonchalant expression he usually wore. "If you're just going to get your shorts in a twist, Soldier, then perhaps I shouldn't even bother."

"Damnit, Vino, what were you thinking?" Her anger breaking past the restraints of discipline, she lunged towards Vino and pulled him to his feet by the front of his jacket. "I've seen them buzzing around here last night. Answer me, damn you!"

Again, the cambion showed no indication of surprise or fear. In one swift motion, he brought his hands to the Harmonium officer's wrists and pressed hard. With the sudden pain and numbness radiating from the pressure points, her grip weakened enough for Vino to pull her hands off without fuss. "You actually presume to threaten me?"

Rina only averted her gaze and lowered her eyes.

"Rina, Rina, how long have we known each other?" After hearing not even the stirring of a response, he continued, "Have I ever done anything to betray you?"

Bringing her eyes to meet Vino's, Rina sighed, the hint of a smile forming on her lips. "Funny. Your words--your mere words never fail to give me comfort."

Vino flashed two rows of sharp incisors in a smile that for a cambion was downright warm.

"I should be going. It's getting late."

"Would you like some tea first?"

"Fine."

"The usual?"

The woman nodded.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Planescape, but I do own Sigil's plumbing.

Chapter 7

As a result of the Mercykiller faction's timely intervention, both Factol Mallin of the Mercykillers and Factol Sarin of the Harmonium had agreed to put off active inquiry on the matter until the end of the month, or, at least that was what they said in public. In actuality, Mallin had commissioned a low-key information gathering operation consisting of one Morwes Tallhammer, a rising, perhaps formerly rising, star in the Mercykiller faction. Naturally, there was the question of how the Harmonium managed to get wind of the Red Death's logistical discrepancies on such short notice. According to the Harmonium, an anonymous letter detailing the issue at hand arrived on the morning of the second of Tithing and that the attempt to arrest Jeireul was an on the spot call by Measure Four Rina Gers, who had since been conveniently reprimanded.

Mallin didn't believe a word of it, of course. To sticklers for regulation like the Hardheads, taking such action based upon an unverified, anonymous source was extremely unorthodox. For that reason, he tasked Morwes with getting to the bottom of it. The mission was very general in scope: look into any and all leads. Despite the faction's attempts to keep the entire incident under wraps, however, word of the altercation with the Harmonium spread like wildfire through the ranks, and within a week every Mercykiller in the multiverse had heard of it. Thus it came as little surprise to most when on the morning 10th, an entire Bytopian company of Knights of the Sword showed up at the prison's gates. Led by Commander Mani Morrell, an aasimar native of that plane and a senior Justice of the Mercykillers, this detachment was sent from the Heart of Justice for the purpose of conducting internal security operations. Naturally, their Sigilian comrades welcomed the help, though Factol Mallin immediately set them to duty augmenting the force of Acheronians already patrolling the streets. Though tired from their journey, they did not complain. They were Knights of the Sword, Kiri-Jolith's chosen, fanatically loyal and beyond all moral reproach. They would rather die than appear weak in the eyes of the faction.

On the streets, it was easy to distinguish these celestial arrivals. Clad in their mottled brown longcoats and brandishing their glasteel repeaters, they were certainly an uncommon sight. The name of Kiri-Jolith's order, the Knights of the Sword, was a bit of a misnomer in this respect, as the sword was already falling into disuse among the Bytopians. It was no secret that the Knights frequently conducted raids on the lower planes and were a minor but not insignificant player in the Blood War. Their equipment was tailored for this purpose--heavy reliance upon ranged weapons, long coats to resist the harsh conditions of infernal battlefields, and armor designed to counter shell fragments and bolts rather than swords and axes. The standard protection for a Bytopian trooper consisted of a green steel scale undervest attached to a hardened paper backing, which was laminated to prevent soaking. The standard weapon was the repeating crossbow, built from a design reverse-engineered from the field. Ironically these crusaders, who dedicated their lives purging the multiverse of evil, went to great lengths to replicate its tools.

For Areldis, her work during the month of Tithing was not much different from that of the previous two months. As a message courier, her job continued much like it had. She continued running daily rounds to the Barracks and the Courthouse as well as the other faction headquarters if the need arose. Though she spent most of her time away from the prison and roaming the streets, she like many other of her Sigilian compatriots felt crowded by the new arrivals. It was at obvious sight every morning at breakfast, as the Mercykillers separated into Sigilian, Acheronian, and Bytopian clusters. Clad in their respective uniforms, they sat apart, backs turned towards one another. There was so little mingling among the groups that one could easily wonder if they were all from the same faction. Thus, it was as no small surprise when on the 17th Commander Mani Morrell seated himself at the table where Areldis, the Tallhammer brothers, Ranth Fersi, and Thana Alsim had gathered for lunch. Justice Alsim was cracking a joke about how much she made Areldis run when she suddenly stopped short of the punchline. A ochre-complexioned man wearing the uniform of a Bytopian guardsman had taken a seat next to her and was staring intently at the Tallhammer brothers on the opposite side of the table. His eyes shone with a golden tint that betrayed his celestial heritage. Like Thana, he too was an aasimar.

Sensing the tension at the table, the man excused his intrusion and proceeded to introduce himself. "Mani Morrell, Knight of the Sword." His voice was calm and sonorous.

"We know who you are, Commander," Justice Fersi said. "It's just not often that a man of your rank cares to share a table with junior officers like us. You obviously want something, since you came here without a plate."

Mani ran his hand over his shaved head as smiled as if he was embarrassed. "Come, now, you Justices have been sitting with two namers the whole time."

"He does have a point," Thana remarked.

"I've heard a lot about you, Justice Alsim, Justice Fersi, the Brothers Tallhammer. It's a shame I didn't get to meet you all the last time I was here. I've heard so much about you. Justice Fersi, for example, it's not often that a human make it to be weapons master. Just learning the requisite combat skills would take so long that the body would be decrepit with age by the time one finishes. Just how old are you, Justice?"

"Thirty-five, Sir."

"Thirty-five. You don't look a day past twenty-five. If I say, you ought to talk to my wife and teach her a few things."

The attempt at a joke met with mixed results. Morthus burst out in guffaws while his brother remained silent. Thana groaned, and Ranth looked oddly nervous. As for Areldis, she was too busy wolfing down her third sandwich to offer any response. Noticing the other reactions, Morthus promptly shut himself up. However, this awkwardness did not seem to dissuade Commander Morrell, who charged ahead in his rambling. The others at the table strained to follow the commander's monologue, which leapt from point to point without rhyme or reason and seemed to assume prior knowledge of the minutae of Bytopian politics. "As you can see," Morrell concluded to the polite nods of the Sigilians, "that's why I always carry a list of things to do wherever I go. Speaking of which, Justice Tallhammer, aren't you compiling a list of probable suspects in the current investigation?"

"Which investigation?"

"The one that's causing this all of us so much trouble, of course. I'd love to know if you're making any progress."

"I can do very little with the constraints they place upon me, but you should have gotten a brief from senior council."

"The thing is I haven't. As strange as it may sound, they haven't been talking to me at all. It's positively undignified."

Thana looked askance and rolled her eyes as if to say, "Gee, wonder why."

"You won't find much interesting, Commander. It's just a listing of the usual jokers, merchant families who are known to be involved in weapons smuggling. You should know them already--the Krocs, the Steinhams, the Saratovs, the Ar-Feiniels, the Quencys, the Strachs--"

"Aah, yes. Yes, yes, yes," Commander Morrell interrupted, waving his finger at Morwes. "Aah, yes, I remember. The Strachs. There's a file down in records that you may be interested in looking at. I'll have them prepare it for you, and it'll be ready before the end of the day."

Morwes appeared puzzled, but he was not going to turn down free help. "Why, thank you, Commander."

"Don't you think it's funny, though?"

"What?"

"These troublemakers, these merchants that you know are black marketeers. It's funny that most of our resources are being spent defending them, even as they plot to destroy us. We had come to help you sort out this mess, but I notice that all of our patrols have been in the Manor District and the Market Ward. It's still exceedingly quiet here, but if I had to guess, violent crime must have doubled in the Lower Ward and the Hive by now. As a result, my men grow restless, and I get an earful of this every single day. Och, I can't tell you how frustrating this is. You, messenger-girl, you've been around the Cage these days. You must know what I'm talking about."

"She has a name. And we're out of here. We don't have to listen to this." As she stood up, she pushed her empty tray to the center of the table. "Morthus, take care of it." She then turned to Areldis and proceeded to hoist her out of her chair by the armpits. "Come," she told her, "let's get a head start on those afternoon deliveries."

Areldis silently grumbled as her commanding officer lifted her to her feet. Quickly dusting off the remainder of her sandwich and gulping down her water, she went after Thana, who was already heading out the door. There was never a moment's rest with that woman, but, then again, she had gotten used to it. As she walked away, she saw Morwes and the others follow their lead, excusing themselves and leaving a rather dumbstruck Bytopian officer all alone at the table.

-

It was back to the grind for Areldis, whose orders now carried her towards the Lower Ward's Foundry. A stack of sealed production orders lay in her knapsack destined for the Godsmen who used the Foundry as their headquarters. As usual, she had explicit orders not to look at the contents of the supply order, but anyone keeping current with faction news could reasonably guess. They were most likely for the Bytopians, whose entire pool of ammunition and equipment consisted of that which they carried on their backs when they first arrived. Though by no means was the situation desperate, the bottom line was that a source of resupply had to be secured. As the arrival of the Bytopians had been unannounced, the faction in Sigil had made no attempt to import the supplies they needed, such as repeater bolts. This was the quickest fix.

The young Mercykiller did not know exactly what to think of the Bytopians. They had a way about them that put everyone on edge. As with the Acheronians, they usually kept their distance, but it was somehow different. The Acheronians did so out of a sense of professionalism, but with the Bytopians, it was more of an unwillingness or even an incapacity. Perhaps, coming from the Upper Planes, Sigil was too different. The city was crowded, dirty, and packed with shades of gray that baffled the crusader mind. It could have been that they were having difficulty adjusting and functioning in this new environment. Or, perhaps, it was simply contempt at their fellow Mercykillers who did not live up to their exacting standards. However, if that were the case, there would have surely been incidents by now--a heated argument or the odd fistfight. As far as the Sigilians could tell, though, their Bytopian comrades were nothing but the paragons of discipline and order.

One thing seemed certain, however. Lying wasn't exactly in the Bytopian nature. As much as the Sigilians did not want to hear what Commander Morrell had said about the faction's priorities, the man was absolutely correct in saying it. The streets here in the Lower Ward were more dangerous. Whereas Areldis had taken occasional shortcuts on her routes before, that was not the case now. The gangs were growing bold, and reports of their internecine strife were headlined in the papers every morning. Many people went missing or turned up dead. Now, she stuck to the handful of major roads that were patrolled and did not deviate from them, even if it meant doubling her trip time. Still, even on these streets she could see it. She could see the hordes of dirty children, the blind beggars, and the ragpicker women, their faces sallow with the degenerating illness bred from the garbage and filth of the Lower Ward. She saw the victims too, staggering onto the street clutching their bloodied faces or dragging a crippled leg. The collectors' carts brimmed with deaders and coursed up and down the roads to the Mortuary with greater frequency. This was the month of business, and business was good. Areldis watched all this with an impassive gaze. She did not let these distractions impede her in her duties, but it was incorrect to say that she was wholly unperturbed. She still retched every time she saw the collector's cart, laden with its bounty of half-naked, pox-ridden bodies. Contorted in varying states of decomposition, these unfortunate souls served to remind the Mercykiller of what she could have been had she continued to drift. It seemed like a lifetime ago. What had possessed her with the vain hope that she might find a portal home--in the Hive, of all places? What good was it now that she barely remembered it?

-

Commander Morrell had been good on his word, and Morwes was duly impressed. Justicar Brookmar in Records had the file ready for Morwes the moment he walked in that afternoon. He was not impressed, however, with the contents of the file that the Commander had so efficiently prepared for him. It detailed an investigation that occurred about two years ago involving the Strach family and illegal weapons shipments heading for the Outlands. The Mercykillers, after half a year of investigation, were unable to substantiate any firm connection between the two, and the entire report was filled with half-truths and half-baked leads. Lists of names and addresses, a sketch or two, but nothing truly substantial, nothing to indicate any connection this case had with the faction's current predicament. Why Morrell decided to show this report to him was anyone's guess, for it really did not include any information that he did not know already. Things only became odder when he tried to leave with the file. He was stopped by Justicar Brookmar, who informed him that the documents were highly confidential and could not be duplicated or taken out of the Records Office. She also advised him against speaking about its contents to anyone else. His bafflement complete, Morwes left empty-handed.

In the hall, he bumped into his friend Ranth Fersi, who was wearing his right arm in a sling. "Pike, what happened?" Morwes asked.

Ranth looked over his shoulder before answering. "It's those featherhead Bytopians. They may have celestial blood in their veins, but they need to remember that I'm just a human. I was sparring with one of their squad leaders, and I tell you, some of those bricks wouldn't know what sparring was even if they were armed with pieces of cotton-padded wood. Bastard wrestled me to the ground after locking blades."

"So how bad is it?"

"Dislocated shoulder, some muscles and ligaments torn bad, but it's been set and patched with a potion. It's going to be a bit raw for the next few days, though."

"You should probably get a duty waiver for that."

"That's where I'm headed right now. So, did you find anything interesting?"

Morwes scratched his chin, thinking about his answer. "No," he replied. "I found nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that would help me."

"Well, at least you got a copy."

"I don't have one."

"What?"

"They told me the document cannot be duplicated or removed."

"Really--" Ranth didn't get to finish his sentence as a troop of Acheronians marched past, their steel boots clattering with their furious pace. At the back of the line were a group of Sigilians, including the imposing figure of Morthus Tallhammer, fully arrayed in greenish-black plate.

Morthus let the column pass but stopped his brother. "Just where do you think you are going?" he asked.

"There's been an explosion in the Hive."

"Where?"

"The Slags. Now let me go, Brother."

The Slags? Morwes's blood ran cold. "Look, Morthus. This is no mere patrol. This is a combat mission. There is no reason why you should be going."

"I'm under orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Mallin's."

The Factol. Morwes's heart grew despondent. "Morthus, keep your head about you and please, please be careful."

"I will, Brother," the younger Tallhammer replied before sprinting in pursuit of his Acheronian comrades.

"Ranth, go get your waiver. I'm going to have a talk with Melrasat about this."

There were few words to describe what Morwes was feeling. Upset? Upset was what one felt when stubbing a toe or losing money at cards. Angry? Angry was what happened after getting reprimanded out by a superior. Fear was too simple an emotion to describe what he was going through. The feeling welled up from within him like nausea from his bowels. The Slags. A little piece of the Hells in the heart of the Hive. The place had the dubious recognition of being the site of Sigil's first and only Blood War incursion. A half-century ago, on the rumor of a powerful artifact buried in the Hive, Baatezu and Tanar'ri battalions crashed into Sigil and fought it out for six weeks, reducing entire neighborhoods to rubble and ash in the process. Eventually, the rumor turned out to be false, and the fiends left, but not before they had done irrevocable damage. Their perverse magics had twisted the land with an evil that even the Lady herself could not undo. If the earthquakes, random portals, dust storms, and leftover booby-traps did not present enough of a challenge to the traveler, the Slags were also haunted by dretches and lemures, the straggler cannon fodder of the fiendish armies. At night, the undead ventured forth from their subterranean caverns.

At least the Kadyx was gone. A biologically-engineered weapon gone rogue, the Kadyx was the greatest horror the city had ever known. The beast had escaped its tanar'ri handlers and had taken up residence in the ruins of the slag, feeding off the unfortunate souls who dared enter. Six years ago, the Kadyx was finally rooted out and destroyed through a combined action by all the factions at the cost of over 200 lives. Morwes was there with the Mercykiller contingent, and to this day, he still had nightmares. He could not forget the dismembered bodies of his comrades, arranged like dolls in poses befitting the Kadyx's grotesque sense of humor; the infernal screeching of vargouilles; and the ghouls with fresh flesh hanging from their teeth. He could never forget the sight of the creature when they finally cornered it after a week of hunting. It was a tarrasque in miniature, hardly larger than a man but no less terrifying than the real thing. Its claws were long and hooked, its back clad with an all but impenetrable black carapace. And its eyes--its eyes flickered with a diabolical intellect. The Sigilian forces spent two days and nights hacking up the body to prevent the creature from regenerating while the city scrambled to find a wizard capable of wishing the accursed thing to death for good. All the while, they beat off attacks by scavenging undead, who, drawn by the fragrance of fresh blood, dared to venture forth even during the day.

No, this was not a job for any trainee. With the Kadyx gone, gangs and cutthroats have moved into the Slags, knowing that the law would be reluctant to follow them. The land was every bit as dangerous as before, and people disappeared there just as frequently. Thus, Morwes wasted no time getting to the second floor to Justicar Eran's office, and he did not even bother to knock. Shoving the door open, he caught the man standing in front of his desk in mid-conversation with Sub-Commander Li. "How could you let them?" Morwes asked in a voice that almost rose to a shout.

"What?" the old man replied.

"The trainees--they are going to the Slags. My brother is going to the Slags. You have responsibility for these trainees, Justicar. Even if it's from the Factol, you have a responsibility to oppose this."

"I was the one who made the call. I gave that order; Mallin only approved it," Shan remarked.

"You! What are you thinking? Has your mind been so poisoned by the battlefield that you cannot grasp the insanity of what you are doing?"

An accusatory finger shot out at Morwes. "Tallhammer, you are way out of line! You have no idea--" The woman stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Morwes's clenched fist. "Go ahead and hit me, if you dare."

Much to her surprise, Morwes obliged, landing a punishing hook on her left cheek. Dazed, she reeled back a few steps and was caught by Justicar Eran just before she hit the table. "Were you any other man, I would kill you," she muttered through clenched teeth as she straightened herself with the old justicar's help. "Believe me, Morwes, I did not make the decision lightly."

"I should be the one going. I was there; I know what to expect."

"True, you are one of many Kadyx veterans here, but the Factol has already given you an assignment. And, if I had the luxury of pulling patrols and reassigning officers and duty rosters to make a 'proper' detail, I would've done so. But as the situation stands, every minute wasted is a minute towards failure. Committing our reserves was the only option I had."

"The hell you--"

Justicar Eran saw that the argument was quickly getting out of hand, so he slammed his palm on the table, shouting, "Morwes! Both of you stop this right now!"

The silence was instant. Even with tempers flaring, years of conditioning in the Mercykiller faction had rendered blind obedience in the face of a superior officer an instinctive reaction. Morwes grunted as he turned to face the old man.

Having their attention, Melrasat added, "If you would calm down, all this can be explained. The commander here was in the process of explaining the situation to me when you decided to burst in. Now, Shan, if you please."

The commander exhaled brusquely and cast a glance at Justicar Eran before returning her gaze to Morwes. "As I was saying to Melrasat, there was an explosion in the Slags. An exhausted Harmonium runner showed up at the main gate about a half hour ago with their faction's request for immediate support. I didn't have time to send runners to fetch our patrols, so I informed the Factol and sent whatever I could. Not much. Thirty of my own and eighty-some Cagers, including two dozen trainees. This makes it the third incident in a week."

"The third what? There were no other bombings this week or this year for that matter."

"Massacres, Morwes, massacres. You recall the bar incident on the 11th and the fire on the 14th, right?"

"I read the headlines in _Sigis_. On the 11th, twenty-seven people were poisoned at a Hive bar known as the Last Round. All have died. On the 14th, a dilapidated Lower Ward tenement caught fire while its occupants slept. Seventy-four fatalities, no survivors, arson suspected. Yes, I have heard of these incidents, and they appear to be deliberate. Now, what of it?"

"The Harmonium is in charge of the investigations, but I've heard rumors. I've sent a member of my staff out to put out a few discreet inquiries here and there, and the word on the street is that these are targeted killings. You see, all those who died in the fire were Bregwater Street Gang members and their families, and all those who got poisoned at the Last Round were Wraith Shadows. Both gangs as of now are effectively disbanded, and whatever remnants there are will soon get taken out or absorbed by their rivals. This bombing today, if I'm to trust the Harmonium runner, was in the direction of the suspected hideout of the Slag Rats. If they've been struck, we're looking at several dozen dead and a giant mess of a crime scene. I--the Harmonium needs boots on the ground right now to clear a path to the blast site, collect evidence, and evacuate deaders and any survivors. We need to do this before the wild dogs, dretches, and whatever other carrion feeders decide to clean up the site themselves."

"Even so, you still should not have sent our least experienced! The Slags are not for the unprepared! And my brother, I've tried my best to keep him out of trouble. I've done everything over the years to prevent him from suffering the horrors of what we had been through. How could this--how could you!"

"And yet your brother chose to become a Mercykiller! He'd have to be made of sterner stuff--our job is already very messy, in case you forgot. I'm not going recite another 'he knew the risks' speech. Save that lemure shit for our generals in Vorkehan. But it's simple, the more people we can get to the scene, the quicker we can evacuate it, and quicker everyone can get back home, safe and sound. Whatever happens, I am prepared to accept full responsibility, but I do not feel that I have made an error in judgment."

Morwes had an angry retort on the tip of his tongue. He had some barbs that were just dying to be used on that self-assured, implacable brute of an Acheronian officer. But while one part of him was consumed with unthinking rage, another, the rational investigator that the faction had also conditioned into existence, did not sit idle. Something about this did not add up. "Twenty trainees. Twenty out of a hundred is a sizable proportion, but the Harmonium's probably got double that total scouring the Slags right now, and twenty out of many hundreds is water in the ocean. Why are you, then, so determined to send more of our men? The Harmonium is this city's police force, so why would the Mercykillers be so interested in the investigation of this crime? Professional courtesy to a fellow member of the Triad of Order doesn't go that far. There's something at stake here that you are not telling me."

"I taught you well, Morwes. I would have been disappointed if you didn't catch on."

Morwes said nothing but only glared at his mentor.

"These massacres started about a week ago--"

"Shortly after the Bytopians arrived," the Acheronian commander completed.

"I always told you, Morwes, coincidences can happen."

"But never trust them, never take them at face value. I suggest you stop playing games and tell me what is going on, Melrasat."

"Indeed. Very well, Morwes, did you know that an entire platoon of Bytopians has gone missing since they arrived in our city? An entire platoon."

"What? What do you mean by missing? As in casualties?"

"Missing as in we don't know where in the hells they are. As of now they only exist on paper. Go to Morrell with this, and he'll deny everything, of course. These Bytopians have been very crafty in covering their tracks. Most of the unit is out on patrol at any given moment, where we can't watch them. They'll assign one squad two shifts and record it as two different squads in their report to the Factol. Officially, everything appears to be in order. But I was corroborating my suspicions with Shan today, and her intelligence section's saying that anywhere between twenty and fifty of Morrell's troops are simply not there."

"So you think they've gone rogue? Is _that_ it?"

"Keep in mind that we are dealing with fanatics," the commander remarked. "Who knows what kind of holy war they've cooked up right under our noses."

"And who are you to call them fanatics?"

"Don't you start with me, Morwes! We in Vorkehan are ruled by law and not puerile passions. If the Bytopians have become rabid crusaders, you can only imagine the consequences for the faction."

"Yes, as far as I can see it, they're making our job easier. They're clearing out the scum that needed clearing in the first place."

"We don't know their intentions, Melrasat said. "They may be attacking common criminals now, but we don't know what's they're really after. If their actions get out of hand, the Mercykillers could get barred from this city. They could even spark a war with the other factions, and then we'll have another Great Upheaval on our hands."

"If they're so much trouble, then why don't you persuade Factol Mallin to relieve them of their duties?"

"The last thing you Sigilian berks need is another scandal. Not after what just happened with the kid. We can't move on just rumors. We need solid proof, and I need my intelligence teams to get a look at the evidence before the Harmonium packs it up. The only way to ensure that is to put enough men there to justify our stake in the operation."

In his heart, Morwes understood that Justicar Eran and Sub-Commander Li were acting in the existential interests of the faction, but the disgusted expression he wore on his face said otherwise. "I'm sorry, but I cannot even bear to look upon you right now. I am taking my leave and heading to the Slags. You will tell Mallin to grant me permission. Or not, if it suits you. I am going regardless."

Melrasat's only response was a nod, to which Morwes saluted. Before anyone could think to say anything, he was gone.

Stunned, Acheronian commander turned to face the old Justicar. "You sure about this? He's not in any rational state of mind."

"Shan, you should know," the man reassured with a sly smile. "He's always in a rational state of mind, even when he doesn't want to be."

-

The anxiety in the streets was already palpable. Though sound of the blast had not traveled far, the torus-shaped surface of Sigil ensured that the explosion was visible as a bright flash in the darkening afternoon sky. Cagers who saw it understood that it had come from the Slags, and the columns of Harmonium and Mercykiller troops streaming towards it only heightened their fears. Memories of the battle against the Kadyx were fresh, and, for those old enough to remember, the memories of the Blood War incursion were fresher still. For six weeks the Sigilian sky had turned blood red and the ground quaked, at times so violently that it was feared the city-ring was in danger of shattering. Though the most recent incident in the Slags was but a pale reminder of that catastrophic battle, the sight of the explosion and the thumping of boots was enough to send a number of the city's more paranoid citizens into a frenzy.

Somewhere near Moke Street in the Hive, there was a decrepit old man standing upon a crumbled parapet, brandishing his cane in one hand and a wooden placard covered with indecipherable red scribbles in the other. His long white beard flickered to and fro, blown by the wind and his own feverish gyrations. Around him gathered a fearful lot of Hivers, huddling in their tatters and filth but awestruck by the man's words. "Swollen with our blood the waters rise! For now comes the wrath of the Merciless One. Praise the strength! Praise the sword that rends our flesh and cleanses our land!"

Stopping by this scene, Morwes felt a shiver run down his spine. The commotion was an excuse for these malingering caitiffs--trash not even fit to be called trash--to crawl out of their disease-ridden hovels and spread their poison to the masses. This wasn't the first doomsayer he'd passed on the way, but it was the first with a captive audience. In the more affluent wards, Harmonium and Mercykiller patrols ensured that any such charlatans were immediately arrested and whatever crowds around them scattered with a stamp of a halberd staff. Here, there was no one to stop this cur from making a bad situation worse. Morwes contemplated intervening, but as the crowd swelled, the task seemed increasingly futile. It took little to strip away that semblance of rational civility upon which society rested.

Indeed, it had taken little to strip away his own. As he watched the agglomeration of frightened Hivers, his disgust began to turn away from the crowd and towards himself. What he had done today was a disgrace. He had assaulted a friend and fellow officer, and the guilt of that realization gnawed away at him. Was this to be reported? They had every reason to, but they Morwes knew that they were going to keep it under wraps. Had his outburst been directed at anyone but Sub-commander Li and Justicar Eran, his career would have been over on the spot. Disrespecting a superior officer was egregious enough without adding assault to the charge. He was fortunate to have such good allies, who actually had his interests in mind. In retrospect, he knew that Shan could not play favorites with the trainees; if she was sending them, she could only send them all. And if Morthus had not gone with the rest, he would never live down the stares of his peers. There was no reason to blame them. This responsibility to watch over his brother was his and his alone to bear.

It wasn't difficult weaving through the crowd. For generations immemorial Hivers had learned to cower reflexively when confronted with representatives of the law. They feared the law, sometimes justly but mostly out of some misguided apprehensions that they themselves could not place. But now with the fear of war looming, these people saw the Harmonium and the Mercykillers as protectors. As Morwes passed, he saw mothers turn to him with eyes of hope while clutching their children tightly with their filthy hands. He nodded respectfully in reply, and he felt ashamed, ashamed that the only concern that mattered to him was his brother's well-being.

Morwes crossed Moke Street in a hurry, and then down Bedlam Run he flew. As always, this road was home to its characteristic crowd--throngs of the indigent and the insane clamoring for admittance to the Bleak Cabal's Gatehouse. The fortress-like building was Sigil's asylum, and, as it was located only several blocks away from the Slags, it was a strategic position. The Bleaker faction guards were normally tasked with eliminating the odd vargouille or dretch that made it out. The Bleakers saw it as part of their commitment to community service, a calling whose quality of execution was eminently debatable. The neighborhoods surrounding the Gatehouse were notorious for becoming more blighted with each passing year. The Bleaker-run city hospital, with the butcher Ridnir Tench as head surgeon, was in recent years more known for turning patients criminally insane than for healing them. Nonetheless, they were the only faction that officially extended alms to these poor wretches of the Hive, and for many the asylum was an infinitely better place to stay than the street.

After getting directions from a Bleaker guard, Morwes soon found the base camp of the Slags expedition. It consisted of a makeshift hospital area and some rudimentary barricades constructed out of the debris on the ground. Wooden planks, smashed marble, and twisted strips of rusted iron were gathered into piles barely two feet high. The barricades lined one side of the road, forming two facings towards the interior of the Slags with a gap of a few yards between their flanks. Harmonium guards in their faded red armor had their bows rested menacingly over the edge, peering over the desolate field of rubble, garbage, and half-burned buildings. A cloud of dust, a diaphanous haze of beige blanketed the ground, making it difficult to see more than thirty or forty yards ahead. Behind them, on the street, were the wounded. It had only been a little more than an hour, and the casualties were already coming in. One of them was his brother. Even at a distance where faces were indiscernible, the powerful figure of the young Mercykiller was unmistakable. He was lying on a stretcher with a Harmonium medic tending to his foot. Morwes rushed to his side to see his brother grimacing with a white rag hanging from his mouth. His left boot was a mess of blood. The medic was in the process of cutting the boot straps with a scalpel.

"Took an wooden stake through the sole," the Harmonium trooper muttered without looking up, preempting Morwes's obvious question.

Morwes instinctively removed his helmet as he regarded his brother. "How serious is it?"

"Gotta get this pikin' shoe off. Argh!" She fell back with a grunt, boot firmly in hand. The younger Tallhammer convulsed, his eyes glazing over with the pain. "Hold still, ye sop!"

"How serious is it?" Morwes stressed again.

With the boot off, both of them got a good look at the wound. The stake had gone clean through, with no noticeable sign of splintering. "We shoulda treated it there, but it's too dangerous to be sittin' bleedin' in the Slags. This one'll be fine with a light healing spell. Just don't expect him to be back on his feet tomorrow."

As the medic began to chant her spell, Morwes turned to his brother. Morthus, whose eyes were regaining their focus, spit out the rag in his mouth and tried to sit up. His brother motioned him to stop. "Rest," he said.

"I screwed up, didn't I?"

"It could have been worse. Believe me, it could have been worse. I'm just glad to see that you're all right."

"All right is...relative."

Morwes knew that his brother was a proud man and that his pride would never let him live down the fact he had been incapacitated by a simple trap on his very first real mission. However, considering the seven other wounded, two of which were other Mercykiller trainees, Morthus had gotten off lightly. There were some who had bloody gauze wrapped all up and down their legs. A spike through the foot was minor by comparison. At least there weren't any dead yet. "Take it easy, Brother. You are done here. I'm going to go get some answers from whomever's in charge."

The medic, expecting Morwes's question once again, pointed towards the right barricade, where a group of four Harmonium officers were squatted down and huddled against the makeshift fortification. When she received Morwes's nod of acknowledgement, she went back to fixing a brace on her patient's foot. When Morwes went to the officers, they pretended not to notice even as he cast his shadow over them. Their gazes did not lift from the cobblestones where they traced their invisible deployment plans. One of the officers was already in the process of detailing some recommendations. "...approach needs to be widened, and we'll need some equipment to help lift the debris. There are access points here, here, and here. We have those secured and covered, so I don't anticipate trouble at this point."

"And the route?" asked the woman who appeared to be the highest-ranking among them.

"Marked, with checkpoints in line-of-sight."

"Good. Itana, take charge of this camp and send a runner for engineers. I'll go take a look'it the blast site. Dismissed."

One by one they rose, and without even paying regard to Morwes, they returned to their assignments. The man called Itana began to rattle off orders to the Harmonium at the barricade, and the other two appeared to be supervising the medical teams, who were still tending to the wounded and preparing to receive more. At last, the commander stood up. Morwes recoiled in shock when he realized just who it was. Though the lower portion of her face was concealed with a red scarf, one look at her eyes and he knew that standing before him was none other than Rina Gers, the Harmonium measure that he and the entire Mercykiller faction had humiliated a fortnight ago. He was at a loss for words, and with the scarf obscuring her face he could not really ascertain her stance towards him. Thus frozen, Measure Gers had the opening move. "Finally," she said without a trace of irony, "a Mercykiller with some real authority."

"Morwes Tallhammer. I just arrived."

"Good. I'd prefer to deal with the Sigilian command. It's standard protocol, after all."

"There were no officers in our troop?"

"Acheronians, outsiders."

"Understandable. They have a tendency to think themselves above our law."

"I commend your faction for providing reinforcements on such short notice, but, honestly, what were you thinking sending this untrained rabble in without even steel plated boots?" She tilted her head towards the wounded, but Morwes did not follow her gaze. "Still, I appreciate the effort. Despite their faults, they're quite helpful. Are you here to take charge of them?"

"I came on my own volition. I was concerned for my brother."

"Ah, yes, that--"

"Deader train!" The shout came from the barricade, and in the distance a column of stretcher-bearers was trickling through the dust fog towards the camp.

Measure Gers shot a look behind her and quickly turned back to Morwes. "Your brother'll be fine. Look, you're here now. I need you as my liaison to the Mercykillers. Stay with me here for the sake of both our factions."

Morwes could find no issue with the Harmonium officer's request. He had been selfish and indulgent, thinking only of his own kin when the stakes for the city were so much higher. Once more he felt ashamed. Here was Measure Gers, dedicated to duty irrespective of any personal reservations against the Mercykillers. All the bad blood that she and the other Harmonium harbored against his faction was seemingly forgotten as they committed themselves fully to the task at hand. It was time for he himself to step up to the task. If the Bytopians were indeed the source of these disturbances, then he could not afford to have his head in the sand.

He followed Measure Gers to the stretcher-bearers, who were now laying their cargo in a row in the safety of the roadside encampment. There were seven, all covered with burlap tarps. The stench of death was upon them, and for a moment Morwes's blood ran cold thinking that they were the latest casualties. However, relief came as one of the Harmonium explained that the corpses they carried were the ones they were able to extract from the debris. The Slag Rats' hideaway was mostly subterranean, and the explosion collapsed much of the structure in on itself, now resting in a sunken pit thirty yards across.

Measure Gers lifted the sheet from one of the victims, causing a number of the younger guards to react viscerally. The man's--or, what appeared to be a man's--face was caved in by debris, a putrid clabber of brain and blood trickling out the side. A severed hand and half a leg lay atop his torso, which was already topped by a mass of entrails reeking of ale. Even resurrection spells would have difficulty working on a body so battered. Measure Gers pulled the sheet further; her eye had caught the outline of an object through the burlap. With her free hand, she pulled forth the frame of a crossbow and held it to the dimming sky. It was a glasteel repeater, scratched and worn but undoubtedly the prized possession of the victim. Most likely, it had been scavenged from the junk of Slags, a memento from some nameless tanar'ri casualty. She peered down the weapon's sights and cycled the cocking handle a couple of times. After feeling its weight and balance, she took out a roll of gauze and began to wrap the end of the splintering stock. "A bit much for a street gang," she remarked.

"He was holdin' it when we found it. The string's been cut, though, so we just put it on the stretcher."

To the revulsion of others present, the measure reached into the pile of spilled entrails and began unlacing the man's jacket. Emotionlessly, without apprehension or disgust, she rummaged through the man's shirt and pockets until she found her prize--a spare bowstring slick with blood. Pulling off her red scarf, she dried her hands and wicked down the bowstring, after which she affixed it to the superficially scarred weapon. She tossed the bloody scarf into the arms of one of her subordinates. "I can't carry this in there. Get it washed; I'll pick it up later." She then turned to Morwes with the bow and asked, "Know how to use one of these?"

The Mercykiller realized that the woman was offering him a gift. A peace offering in her candor? But, he could not lie. "I've never tried."

"Then fix your helmet and keep that sword ready," she said with the bow propped up on her shoulder. "We're going the site. Grumm, Kona--get your squads in line."

Not even ten yards into the Slags, Morwes felt a familiar tingle in his veins. It was fear, the shadow of the fear that gripped him six years ago when he had hunted the Kadyx. Though the path was already marked and guarded, the familiar taste of the air evoked memories that were better off lying dormant. It was also exhilaration. The certain knowledge of imminent danger was one of nature's most powerful stimulants. Bred from the primordial recesses of survival instinct, it was a monstrous sensation to which one could all too easily become addicted. To make men love danger--to make them lust for it was one of the cruelest jokes that nature could play on the mind. Morwes saw it on the face of Measure Gers as he walked abreast from her. The placid confidence emitted from her unblemished visage told him that the woman was no stranger to the battlefield, and the intensity of her eyes as they darted back and forth scanning the distance expressed a desire and expectation for battle. A part of her was at home here.

Midway in their journey, one of the two halberdiers trailing the officers broke into a spat of coughing. "So much pikin' dust!"

"Probably one of dem roaming prime gates. Dey always kick up a storm 'erever dey go," the other replied.

"Yeh think the perps coulda used it to jump town?"

"Ye'd be insane t'use one'a dhose tings."

"In other words, not bleedin' likely. Now stop rattlin' and keep focused!" Measure Gers held her hand out, motioning everyone to stop. "You hear that?" she whispered.

At first, he thought it was the rustle of the wind, but slowly, surely, he could make out a faint scratching coming from a ruined house on the left side of the road. Its roof was collapsed, and the walls of the second story were partially crumbled, but it was clear that the building was still occupied. "Dretches," Morwes muttered, his hand reaching for his sword.

The Harmonium measure stopped him. "Don't bother. They aren't coming. We are in force, and there probably aren't enough of them to take us on. Might be trouble later, though."

The squad passed the next checkpoint, they informed the guards of the situation with the house. And thus, they moved from checkpoint to checkpoint following the painted stakes that had been left by the initial force. The checkpoints got closer together, and markers began appearing on the ground indicating traps. Dug-in positions amidst the rubble were also evident. The Slag Rats had obviously put a lot of time into preparing for the day when the law would seek them out. Had they been in any condition to defend themselves, losses would have been serious.

Eventually, they came to the ruins of the hideaway, which was now swarming with officers of the law. In a semi-circular clearing, the men and women of Sigil's Triad of Order were painstakingly digging, one piece of rubble at a time. Though it had been blasted into the earth, it was apparent that the building had been carefully concealed. A section of the roof that had flown off in the explosion bore the splotches of gray and black paint and the burlap tatters that disguised the structure from the air, and irregular piles of stone debris shielded its walls from the ground. Black fumes wafted through the air; a small hill of hacked-up undead was being burned. Dozens of dretches and wild dogs lay dead in rows before the collapsed structure. It had been quite a while since the scavengers had this much fresh meat to gnaw on, and each additional carcass just added to the lure.

"Soddin' Rats picked up a necromancer," said a Harmonium officer who presented himself to Measure Gers. He pointed to the bonfire of zombies. "Had a dozen of these things doing laps to scare off the vermin."

"Measure Mead, show us the work. And this is Justice Tallhammer. He'll be coming along as well."

"Yes, immediately."

The man saluted and motioned them to follow, and they proceeded over to where the troops were working. Morwes caught sight of the team of Acheronian soldiers at the heart of the site. Corporal Jin, reputed to be the Sub-Commander's yes-man, wore an inscrutably placid mask as he silently directed the members of his squad in clearing a corner section of peculiar interest. "What are they doing here?" Measure Gers whispered to Measure Mead.

"Half the sods here are Mercykillers. I wasn't in a position to refuse the help."

The commander grunted her disapproval. "We are in Sigil, and you are to deal with the Sigilian command." Her eyes fixed on the Acheronian squad, she wasted no time no time in heading over and calling them to attention. "Friends, Mercykillers, your faction's sent Justice Tallhammer here as my adjutant and liaison. Please report any progress to him so we may better coordinate our efforts."

The corporal was first to stand, and his gaze flashed between Morwes and his troop behind him. He quickly unbuckled his helmet, in one swift motion resting it akimbo and bowing respectfully. His spiky hair was matted down with sweat. "Did Commander Li send you?" he asked, his voice betraying the annoyance of having his de facto command usurped.

"And what if she did?" Morwes replied.

"Very well." The Acheronian officer nodded. "I am at your disposal, Justice."

"What have you been doing here?"

"Not much we can do until the engineers arrive, but we've been cleaning up this section of the wall. I want you to take a look. You as well, Harmonium comrades." The other Acheronian guards stepped back a few feet around flipped-over slab of concrete. It had crumbled in a jagged trapezoidal, two to three feet across. On its left side was a crude inscription of three words that was chipped into it. Jin brushed away some of the dust with his boot and pointed. "My Abyssal's rusty, but I recognize these words: 'freedom,' 'power,' and 'death.' It's obviously a fragment. We've been trying to locate the rest, but so far the pieces we've uncovered are too damaged to be readable. It's lookin' more and more like a freak accident, if you ask me. I'll have to send thanks to the high-ups of our factions for draggin' us into this fool's errand."

"You've some nerve, Acheronian," Measure Mead said, scowling. "You decided this on the basis of some maggot graffiti?"

Measure Gers extended her arm to restrain her unruly subordinate. She silently mouthed a few words before sound came from her lips. "Live free, die free. Praise the strength, and praise the dying."

"Yes, I believe it goes something like that," Jin said. "I never suspected that you could read Abyssal."

"What?" asked Mead.

"And I'd say that your Abyssal's more than a bit rusty."

"Hmph."

"Can someone explain to me what you're talking about?" Mead asked.

"It's a slogan of the Bloodfist Legion," Morwes answered. "This hideout was a bunker occupied or even constructed by the tanar'ri during the invasion."

"Finally, some Sigilians that don't need to be led around by the hand. If you take a look at these walls, or, what's left of them, you'll see that they're built at a slope. The entire compound is also largely subterranean and roughly circular. That tells me it was built as a fortification. If you take some this debris back to headquarters for analysis, you'll probably find that the density's far above what normally passes for concrete here."

"That's preposterous! The incursion lasted a matter of weeks. You're telling me that a permanent fortification like this could have been put up that quickly? By front line troops tied up in combat, no less."

"It's very possible, Mead," Measure Gers corrected. She was looking rather pensive with her eyes downcast and her hand on her chin. "The Legion were masters of subterranean engineering. Wasn't uncommon to send in tunneling infiltrators weeks or even months before a battle. This bunker could have been half-done by the time the actual invasion force came. Knowing how little we patrol the Hive, it would have been easy to hide their work. I see what you're saying, Mercykiller. The amount of powder needed to create an explosion of this size would have needed a small army to transport. It's unlikely that it came from outside. Typically, a bunker like this would have had a magazine area in a protected compartment below the main quarters. If it were still stocked, an explosion there would likely produce this kind of destruction."

"And here's a little scenario to ponder," Jin said. "Typically powder crates used by the Legion are sealed in trapped containers to prevent the enemy from using them--even moving them without using the proper procedures could set them off. The powder could have just been sitting there until some upstart wizard decided to undo the seals. Now, you can imagine what would happen if some Slag Rat tried and failed."

"The crate would explode and cook off the rest of the magazine. A promising theory; I'll have to consider it carefully."

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm taking it into consideration, Mead. If you have any ideas..."

And ideas he had indeed--a bewildering array of multifarious hypotheses drawn from convoluted patterns of logic that could only make onlookers cringe. Measure Mead could barely contain himself as he bubbled off theory after theory, each one more incredulous than the last. He noted the inward-pointing orientation of fence posts, the excessive pulverization of the concrete, and the distribution of dead animals. He questioned whether gunpowder could still be viable after fifty years of storage, and he found it difficult to believe that such a large amount of it could just simply be abandoned. The more he talked, the less convincing he became, and it was only a testament to Measure Gers's patience that he was not reprimanded on the spot. The Harmonium commander listened to her subordinate's wild and unfounded assertions without complaint and from time to time offered even-tempered rebuttals to some of his more outlandish conjectures. It was clear that he was getting nowhere with her, a fact that pleased Jin to no end. The Acheronian gave Morwes a mischievous wink as the two of them watched the unfolding spectacle.

After several minutes of this, Mead seemed to have exhausted his creativity, and he quieted down on his own. Seeing no reason to continue the exercise, Measure Gers offered no words to restart the discussion. "In any case," she said, trailing off a bit, "we won't know much for sure until the engineering detail gets here. I want you to carry on, Corporal, Measure. Let's keep these speculations to ourselves for the time being and focus on our immediate task. Measure Itana sent for engineers a short while ago, and they should get here within the hour. Let's work together to keep this place safe." She paused and looked curiously from side to side before continuing. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a quick tour 'round the perimeter. I leave these two in your capable hands, Mead."

"Understood," Measure Mead said with a rigid salute. As the man ushered the two notaries known as Grumm and Kona to their new posts and as Measure Gers disappeared behind a wall of rubbish, Corporal Jin approached Morwes and pulled him several yards away from the collapsed bunker, putting some distance between themselves and the other squads combing the wreckage. Morwes was in the company of Mercykillers, and whatever Jin had to say was for the Mercykiller Faction alone. No doubt the Sub-Commander had given the man orders to conceal any sensitive revelations from the Harmonium.

"So, what do you have to tell me?" Morwes asked.

"As I said, it looks like the powder that sent this place sky-high was already here. I don't see a sodding thing that'd show me otherwise. Then again, there is the lack of evidence. Every one of these blast victims was dead and buried in the rubble by the time we got here."

"No wounded?"

"None. If there were any survivors, they're long gone from here. None of the patrols in this area have turned up even the shadow of another person."

"A bit convenient."

"Indeed."

"Are these Harmonium being forthright with us? Gers--she doesn't much like Acheronians, does she?"

"I could almost taste her disappointment. What a difference a uniform makes. If we traded cuirasses right now, half the savages in this city wouldn't be able to tell the difference."

To entertain the conversation, Morwes laughed. So long as Jin believed him to be under Li's orders, he might as well use the man as a source of information. "Jin, did you see those forward posts on the way here?"

"At least half a dozen of them, shallow crossbow pits well concealed. We didn't see anyone there, though."

"I would like you to assemble a team and scour that area. Look for anything--blood, spit, footprints--anything that might be a clue, because if anyone survived, he would have been stationed at one of those posts. You know what to look for."

Scanning from side to side before replying, Jin pondered for a bit. He seemed to be momentarily puzzled by Morwes's request, but he slowly nodded and seemed to accept. "Getting there will be a problem. They won't take kindly to us stepping on their toes."

"I will have a word with Gers. I'll need to keep an eye on her."

"Understood. I'm on it."

The young Acheronian set about his task with great seriousness, leaving Morwes alone to consider his options. He needed to think. Things were happening fast, and he needed to think them over. Despite being close to Shan, Morwes was troubled by the Acheronians. They were fine soldiers when it came to enforcing the law, but he did not trust their intentions when it came to the city of Sigil. The condescension and arrogance that came so easily to Shan's deputy only hardened his unease. Like the city as a whole, the Mercykillers in Sigil were a delicate balancing act of ideological loci, maintaining a representative neutrality among the traditional fault lines and antagonisms that scarred the faction. And given Sigil's central strategic location, the Mercykiller outpost there had attained a status clearly overshadowing that of the official headquarters in Vorkehan. It was a fact that the Acheronian branch resented, and Morwes knew that given the opportunity, every Acheronian, Shan included, would try to diminish and even undermine local Mercykiller authority and replace it with their own martial law. It was not what the city and its people needed, in Morwes's estimation, so he was not about to give his comrades from Acheron the chance. Thus he sent Jin scouting to stall for time.

There was a part of him that entertained the possibility that it had been Melrasat's plan all along to install his protégé as his agent in the heart of this affair. Perhaps that was why the old man so easily consented to Morwes's decision to head to the Slags, because as it stood he was the only one that Morwes knew he could trust to act in the best interest of Sigil. But the Harmonium Measure Rina Gers complicated such an assessment. The way she had conducted herself had been truly upstanding--she had chosen to reach out in cooperation across faction lines. Her position at the head of his operation ensured that she held some valuable cards in her hands. Could she be an asset? Could she be trusted? Morwes had to find out.

She wasn't easy to track down. The commander had apparently gone on a patrol unescorted, a bizarre course of action that no one seemed to question, or, rather, had the confidence to question. The men that Morwes spoke to only offered assurances that she knew how to take care of herself and would be back shortly. There were already patrols circling the area, so one could say that she was not exactly alone. Nevertheless, he had to locate her quickly to at least negotiate permission for the Acheronians to conduct their investigations. Failing that, he could easily arouse their suspicions and lose their trust. When gathering information, trust was the most difficult but most valuable resource to attain.

By climbing on an earthwork embankment, Morwes spotted her on the ground next to a burned-out warehouse. Other patrols in trinaries were passing by in a counter-clockwise path, but she seemed to be weaving from side to side oddly in the same general location. She was not so much inspecting the perimeter as she was looking for something. He went towards her, circling around several large mounds of debris that blocked line-of-sight, and she didn't seem to notice him as he approached. When he was within twenty or thirty paces of her, Measure Gers quickly shouldered her confiscated crossbow and snapped a shot off through a gap in the ruined building's wall. A sharp whimper proved that her aim was true. She then recocked and fired again and then again. When she seemed to have depleted the bow's supply of bolts, she vaulted through the hole in the wall with her sword drawn. Curious, Morwes walked up and peered inside.

Beyond the mosaic of light and shadow cast by the warehouse's crumbling roof, in the darkened alcove formed by a room corner and a series of collapsed roof beams, Measure Gers was pacing slowly back and forth over the corpses of what appeared to be several dogs. She jammed the heel of her boot down on the neck of one of the unfortunate creatures, slowly crushing its windpipe. The beast writhed and twitched. Blood spurted from the open wound in its skull, coating the Harmonium officer's pant leg with droplets of crimson. It was a final act of defiance for the final moments of its life. Measure Gers lifted her boot and kicked downward with more force. The dog's neck bones gave with a loud pop, and the body lay still.

However, the woman was not finished. Her pace quickened, and the air filled with the crunching and snapping of bone. She shifted her attention to one of the smaller dogs, which had curled up in death away from the others. Her heel found its rib cage. The heavy boot rebounded twice before the animal's side staved in like a deflated balloon. Its abdomen ruptured, leaking forth an indistinct, turbid ichor. Even with his experience in the service of the Mercykiller Faction, even with the experience of the many executions he had witnessed, Morwes found himself recoiling in disgust. The sight, though, did not seem to perturb Gers. Indeed, she only kicked and hacked away with more ferocity and even started cursing at her mutilated victims. "Shut the hell up Mead! Go Styx yourself you addled-coved whoreson spawned from a baatorian shitpit! Maggot bait, catch a bolt with your soddin' face. Acheronians. The hell do you think you're dealing with! What the hell is that pikin' face, Tallhammer? Get. Mazed. You. Sodding. Shit." Measure Gers seemed winded after this fit of cursing. She threw her helmet to the ground and rested with both hands on the wall, taking deep breaths as if gasping for air. She had been so spellbound in this ritual of desecration that she did not notice Morwes approaching from behind and nearly fell over when he called out to her.

"Measure Gers, I have some matters concerning my faction that I must address to you." Though he tried to keep calm, an undeniably nervous quaver infected his voice.

"You--I did not intend for you to see that," the Harmonium officer replied. She did not look at him; though shaky, her hands were still planted to the wall.

"If it's about what happened two weeks ago, I apologize. I was--"

"There is nothing to apologize for. I have already been reprimanded by my superiors. I have reflected upon my mistakes, and I have submitted all necessary self-criticism materials."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what do you mean?"

"Let's let the past stay the past and let today stand as testament to the brotherhood and cooperation between our factions."

Gers's mood seemed to lighten. The slouch disappeared from her shoulders, and she turned to face Morwes with a sad, glassy-eyed smile framed by sweat-matted locks of her auburn bob.

Morwes spoke of the Bytopians to no one that day.


End file.
